As We Are, As We Were
by CreativeWords
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. "We are not only our brother's keeper; in countless large and small ways, we are our brother's maker." - Bonaro Overstreet A look at Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship told in current happenings and memories.
1. Gambit

It was cold.

His left arm was numb from shoulder to elbow and the tingling was beginning in his fingertips. Sherlock knew that wasn't from the cold, but from the compression of the basilic vein where he had his weight resting on his elbow. If he wanted to alleviate the pressure, he was going to have to change positions. To do that would be fatal.

All it would take would be one slight shift, and his brain would be decorating the rooftop. He wondered if his enemy was savoring the irony. A chance to kill the man who drove Moriarty to suicide by shooting him in the head on a rooftop. Poetic, even. From what he knew of the man, it was unlikely such literary constructs were flitting through Sebastian Moran's head. No matter. He could enjoy it enough for the both of them.

He wished John was there.

It was not the first time in the last three years that Sherlock found himself resenting his friend's absence. It was imperative, of course, that John remain in London, convincing the world at large – and more particularly, any of Moriarty's agents who might have stuck around – that Sherlock was, indeed, dead. But he'd grown accustomed to having someone else along, someone who could take up the slack in conversation with a suspect, distract the nosy bystander, pull rank on an army official, take the impossible shot.

Moran may be an internationally known assassin, but Sherlock had no doubt that John Watson could bring him down with one bullet.

If, in fact, John was there.

Another gust of icy wind cut past the short collar of the close-fitting coat he'd chosen for tonight. Nothing had gone according to his plan. He was supposed to arrive before Moran, be lying in wait, ready to take down this last, strongest of Moriarty's allies. He hadn't expected Moran to realize he was in Paris at all, though surely he was aware that Sherlock was coming after him – especially after the debacle in Prague. Tonight was simply supposed to be reconnaissance, a chance to confirm his theory that Moran was scouting the building opposite for a chance to fulfill his contract on Vanneste. Moran, it seemed, had a more extensive network of eyes and ears than anticipated.

He estimated they'd been at a stalemate 11 minutes. Based Moran's decisions, it was clear the man was low on ammunition, because he wasn't spraying the area with bullets. Sherlock had managed to squeeze off enough gunfire to make Moran hesitant to come closer, but he also wasn't leaving. He was simply waiting. Waiting for Sherlock to get tired of hiding behind the HVAC unit and make a move. Once he did, the conclusion would be swift enough. Moran was known for his patience. Sherlock was not.

The scenarios playing through his mind were not encouraging. He could attempt to edge back to the fire escape, and have Moran put a bullet in his brain on the way down. He could leap up and fire, trusting his best guess as to Moran's location and cover, and likely have Moran put a bullet in his brain before he'd have time to see the results. He could attempt to find a place that gave him some visual confirmation, but any movement from behind his very small shield would give Moran all the data he needed to put a bullet in his brain.

The outcomes were all so tediously similar.

His phone vibrated against his ribs. Logically, it would be folly to answer. His attention needed to remain on the gunman across the roof. It was likely a sort of trap, the kind of thing that Moran, with his many underlings, could easily arrange to distract Sherlock. Best if he just left it alone.

But. But as of this moment, there were only four people in the world who knew this number. He ticked them off in quick succession. Molly Hooper – had learned within the first six months of this life that getting in touch "just because" was completely unnecessary and had abided by that. The heads of law enforcement in Venice and Berlin – but both cells of Moriarty's network were completely dissolved there. So most likely –

He sighed and leaned forward enough to ease the phone out of his pocket with his left hand. He registered the whine of a silenced bullet just before it richeted off the edge of HVAC where his hair had been momentarily visible.

_Shall I? M_

Sherlock groaned almost silently. He'd attempted to throw his brother off this time around. He'd out and out told him his next stop was somewhere in Asia, but dropped a discreet number of references to Dublin before sneaking onto the train to Paris as a baggage handler. Apparently he'd have to try harder next time.

The deliberation didn't take long. If he wanted to get off this rooftop before Moran's patience ran out (24 hours, at the minimum), he was going to have to let Mycroft bring in the calvary.

_Ye_

He hadn't completed the text when the sound of a helicopter reached his ears. He didn't bother to glance up, he just acted.

He leaned out, hesitated only long enough to perceive the shape of Moran's head and fired.

He didn't really need the sensation of the bullet slamming into his right arm to inform him that he hadn't killed his enemy, but the confirmation was helpful. In about 1.8 seconds, the pain would register, but not before he heard the shouts of the man leaning out the door of the helicopter and the pounding steps of reinforcements on the fire escape. He grabbed the corner of the HVAC unit and attempted to stand.

Bad planning. His mind was reacting to the wound by attempting to make him pass out. Unnecessary precaution as he was certain the bullet hadn't done much damage. He dragged himself further upright, caught a blurred glimpse of Moran heading for the edge of the roof, and promptly pitched forward. It was, he thought, rather how a tree must feel when it's been chopped.

An unfamiliar face appeared over his, a man in special operations gear.

"Mr. Holmes?"

His tongue felt thick and heavy, but he decided to attempt a reply. "Donntell Mycrof-"

The man just grinned and turned to the radio on his shoulder. "Sir? We've got him."

Sherlock imagined the smile on Mycroft's face, and allowed himself to pass out.


	2. Ancient History

"_Can't you hurry?"_

_He's scowling at the rows of soldiers as if their very existence is offensive. Mycroft doesn't bother to reply, but very deliberately chooses another foot soldier to complete his battalion. Sherlock lets out a sigh of the magnitude known only to 7 year-olds and throws himself on the rug, sprawling on his back, hands flung dangerously close to his brother's army. Mycroft flinches as the fingers stretch and recoil, seeming to search for something to tamper with._

_It's only the first week of summer holidays, and it's already proving difficult to keep his brother occupied. Not that he minds overmuch. The years before Sherlock was old enough to be considered his playmate were much worse._

"_I'm bored," Sherlock says petulantly._

"_You might take this time to set up your side," Mycroft replies evenly._

_Sherlock's troops are placed in haphazard clusters at random intervals all over his half of the battlefield with nothing approaching a straight line in sight. Sherlock rolls over and surveys his handiwork._

"_It is set up. They're all ready to fight."_

"_And all ready to be mowed down by my troops," Mycroft counters._

"_Your men are all facing straight ahead. They don't know where to attack first."_

"_That would only be a problem if I was vastly outnumbered. Romans versus Britons, Sherlock. The Romans always win."_

"_What?"_

_The question is a demand. Mycroft smiles as he settles into a cross-legged position and rests his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers under his chin._

"_In AD 60 or 61 –"_

"_Which is it?"_

"_They're not sure. The historical accounts aren't clear."_

"_They ought to be."_

"_I agree." Mycroft pauses long enough to be sure Sherlock won't interrupt again before continuing. "It was during the time that Rome was controlling Britain. There was a tribe called the Iceni, led by their queen Boudicca, who banded together to try and drive the Romans out. They managed to overthrow several key locations, including Londinium."_

"_London's old name, right?"_

"_Correct." He's certain Sherlock's never heard the word before, but it's so obvious it hardly counts as a deduction._

"_They don't succeed," Sherlock says, scrambling into a sitting position. "Can we skip to why?"_

_Mycroft wonders for just a moment if the mirroring is intentional, but when Sherlock puts his hands under his chin, he removes all doubt. The impulse to smile is quickly checked. If Sherlock thought he was pleased by this, he'd probably tumble onto the rug and take out a few battalions in the process. Instead, he continues with his explanation as if Sherlock didn't interrupt._

"_The Britons outnumbered the Romans at least ten to one, but the Romans fought in tightly formed units. Their shields overlapped each other, making it almost impossible for a single fighter to penetrate their ranks. The tribal method of warfare is that each man is free to do as much damage as he can. Chaos. They didn't stand a chance."_

"_But chaos works." Sherlock's eyes are narrowing at Mycroft, daring him to contradict._

"_Chaos works against an enemy whose nerve won't stand," Mycroft corrects."It's very effective against those with weak minds. But the Romans ruled the world. They had no reason to run from people they'd already conquered. All they had to do was wait for orders from their general."_

_Sherlock hmmmphs at this. Mycroft raises his eyebrows and returns to straightening the lines of soldiers. Let Sherlock be annoyed. He can't argue with facts._

"_You would've been the general, wouldn't you, Mycroft?"_

"_Hmm?"_

"_If you had lived back then. You'd be the general."_

_Mycroft looks up. Sherlock is grinning at him, eyes alight with ideas. He's intrigued enough to ask, "What makes you say that?"_

"_Because you like to be in charge."_

_For some reason, the simplicity of the answer is disappointing. Still, Mycroft reminds himself, Sherlock is only 7. It's a reasonable observation._

"_And," Sherlock says dramatically, dropping his hands to lean forward. "You make plans. You know how to make people do things –"_

"_What?"_

"_You made Nanny let me keep the toad, even though she swore she'd kill it. You made Morgan Jesperson quit picking on me last year, just by talking to him."_

"_You knew –"_

"_Of course I did!" Sherlock looks almost hurt that Mycroft would doubt it. "I was mad at you for a week after, only you were back at school, so I couldn't tell you. But it did make things easier." _

_This last sentence is added more quietly, shamefacedly. Mycroft clears his throat and looks down at his soldiers. It hadn't been terribly difficult to intimidate the lumpy dolt who had been the cause of the bruises Sherlock kept bringing home. He had simply hoped that his independent little brother wouldn't find out that he was behind the bully's sudden loss of interest._

"_And you made Mummy and Father stop fighting last night," Sherlock continues._

_Mycroft looks up again, having to forcibly repress a start this time. "What?"_

"_After they sent me up to bed. I sneaked back down to see if you were talking about my birthday present, and they were shouting. But then you started talking, and they stopped." _

_Sherlock is looking at him triumphantly. He's proven his case. Mycroft can't help it, he smiles back. Sherlock hasn't mentioned what they were fighting about. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he didn't hear enough or didn't understand what he heard. That's good, though the odds of him not finding out are almost nonexistent. Their parents have a tendency to forget that small ears are about, even when one set is sharing the sofa with Father._

"_So if I'd be the general," Mycroft says, steering the conversation back to surer ground. "What would you be?"_

_Sherlock's mouth twists to the right as he thinks. _

"_The tribal chieftain?" Mycroft suggests._

"_Nah, too boring. Besides, you said they lose."_

_Fair enough. Mycroft can't argue with facts._

"_A pirate!" Sherlock exclaims. "Or, what's the word for a land pirate?"_

"_Highwayman, I believe."_

_Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "No, definitely a pirate." He jumps up to prowl about the room. "They don't have to wait on general's orders, and they can plan their own sneak attacks and they get lots of treasure and get to visit islands to bury it. Loads of adventure. And I wouldn't have to wait on someone else to do the thinking."_

"_You'd never be bored," Mycroft concedes._

"_Nope," Sherlock says from right behind him, a hint of a laugh in his voice._

_Mycroft twists around. Sherlock has moved his troops. A group of soldiers is now surrounding the general, cutting him off from the rest of the troops. Sherlock is grinning._

"_Surrender?"_

_Mycroft sets his jaw and gives his brother the tight-lipped smile that intimidated Morgan Jesperson so well last year._

"_Never."_


	3. Zwischenzug

The drone of the helicopter was gone.

It was the first thing he registered as the darkness began to recede. Then it was the measured tick of a large clock. A sense that much more time had passed than he had expected when he closed his eyes on the rooftop.

His eyelids still felt heavy, so he focused on his other senses. Pain. Yes, definitely pain radiating from his right arm, but muted. Painkillers. Bandages, too, and the annoying sensation of an IV cannula in his arm. The weight on him suggested better bedding material than the standard medical issue. The distinct lack of mechanical noises, the faintness of the antiseptic smells, the general warmth of the air. He wasn't in a hospital, but obviously being cared for by someone who knew what they were about.

He inhaled slowly through his nose. The scent of wood polish. Faint staleness to the air, suggesting a room not frequently used. Familiar, somehow. And growing stronger as he continued to breathe, D. R. Harris Windsor aftershave.

He dragged his eyes open and looked to the right. Mycroft stood in the doorway of what he now recognized as the fourth guest bedroom in the Holmes country home. The one on the third floor with the unattractive view of the garden shed and compost pile from its one window. The one so rarely used that it had been his favorite repository for unfinished experiments that no one was to see.

"Awake, I see," Mycroft said, tucking his mobile back into his pocket. "High time, too."

"How long?"

Going by his brother's tweed jacket, it was clear he hadn't just walked through the door. Going by the bandages, the presence of an IV pole by his bed, and settled feel of the bedding around him, he'd been in the room over 90 minutes. Calculating possible travel times from Paris… but his mind wasn't quite clear enough to narrow those options just yet. He attempted to scoot up on the bed, but his right arm was immobilized.

"Approximately 13 hours." Mycroft crossed the room to settle in the wingback chair to the left of the bed.

Sherlock's second attempt resulted in a semi-sitting position that would have to do. "13 hours unconscious from a peripheral injury? That's not right."

"My people stopped off to let the medical team have a go at you before bringing you here, and it seemed most prudent to keep you sedated for transport." Sherlock let out a frustrated growl, but Mycroft continued smoothly. "Dr. Scofield was most anxious that you stay under observation, considering the fact that you are more than moderately dehydrated on top of having a bullet through your arm. I convinced him that we could adequately provide for you here."

His voice was chiseled. Sharp edges to his vowels, clipped endings to words. Mycroft was angry. Not quite angry enough to snarl, but past his usual threshold of annoyance with Sherlock. It could only mean that Moran had escaped. He drew a breath to ask, but Mycroft beat him to it.

"Vanneste was found dead four hours ago."

"I told you last week that there was a contract on him." He shouldn't feel quite so defensive, but he did actually bother to give Mycroft warning this time. "Didn't think it was worth your time?"

"Our agents were diverted to an incident on a rooftop with a man who is supposedly already dead."

There it was, a hint of the snarl. The point where Mycroft's anger escaped his rigidly controlled limits. Sherlock studied his brother's face. A barely perceptible change in the roundness of his cheeks. Despite the scent of aftershave, Mycroft's face was poorly groomed at best. The left of his jaw was positively bristly in patches, and there appeared to be a slight cut on the underside of his chin. Mycroft had been in a hurry. Not so engrossed that he forgot entirely (this was hardly to the level of the fiasco with Poland last year) but any deviation in Mycroft's routine was noteworthy. The narrowing of his left eye indicated that he also felt some measure of personal responsibility. Good. Mr. British Government would do well to remember his role in this.

"That plan was your brainchild, remember? You approached me with the idea back when you had Moriarty in custody."

"Had you agreed to it sooner, it might have averted the need for all this. As it is, there was never any need for you to be the one dashing around the globe playing James Bond."

"As if your little MI6 Action Men could have managed it without me."

"And more efficiently."

Sherlock shoved himself upright at that. The pain in his right bicep had him wilting back against the pillow, pride momentarily forgotten as injured nerve endings fought his mind's orders. Mycroft watched, unmoved.

"You'd best choose to control such impulses, brother. I have a strict schedule of pain relievers for you to follow, one that will _not_ be deviated from no matter how hard you try to convince me you need more. Dr. Scofield is coming out to administer the morphine doses himself, so it's not even in the house."

Sherlock unscrewed his eyelids and squinted at Mycroft, a wordless rage sweeping through his mind. Mycroft was deliberately toying with him. Well, two could play that game.

"Been gaining weight again, Mycroft? At least six pounds since I saw you last?"

Mycroft didn't rise to the barb. He narrowed both eyes and leaned forward, turning the scrutiny back on his brother. "In the last four weeks and three days, you've lost approximately 14 pounds. I'd say a few ounces over that. You've been surviving on coffee and crisps and cigarettes. Perhaps a pack a day, much more than that until… three days ago? Once you'd received word of Moran's location. You've managed to get into at least one street brawl, though knowing you I'd say probably two or three. That suggests you've been frequenting bars, probably overindulging on the duller days. In other words, Sherlock, you've fallen back into every danger pattern I've spent decades monitoring, and you've just lost your man after trailing him halfway across Europe. Do you honestly think I'd allow narcotics in the house?"

It wasn't hard to follow his deductions. The fading nicotine stains on his fingers, white and pink layers of scrapes that had all but healed, the undeniable fact that he was skinnier than he had been in years. It just irked him to be reminded that Mycroft was still Mycroft and at the moment had almost complete autonomy over the situation.

"Any sightings of Moran?"

"He went across two rooftops and then disappeared in the alleyways. My people are monitoring all the points of entry to the country we think him most likely to use." Mycroft sat back again and plucked his mobile from his pocket, eyes darting across the screen.

"He'll probably try to track down those underlings we lost in Prague before coming back to England."

"Probable. But it would be foolish not to be on the alert."

Mycroft's thumbs set to work on his phone. Sending an email, most likely, given the duration of the typing, and the fact that Mycroft only condescended to text when a phone call wouldn't suffice. Sherlock let his eyes drift to the ceiling, replaying what he knew of the events of the last 24 hours. The silence was, if not companionable, at least familiar.

"How did you justify the special operations team in Paris?" There was the slightest hint of pleasure behind the question. It was a wonder to him how easily people trusted Mycroft, listened to him, let him manipulate their lives and countries. And sometimes, just on occasion, it amused him to find out the wherefores and whys.

"An MP was visiting, there are always threats," Mycroft said vaguely, eyes still on the phone screen. "This particular 'threat' came from a terrorist cell in France that was all but eradicated a few months ago. I've kept their status active in the files, though. I thought I might need them sometime."

Boring. He could have deduced something similar. Sherlock sighed, wincing slightly as his right arm shifted.

"We'll need to see about getting you a new identity soon, Sherlock." Mycroft pocketed his phone and looked up expectantly. "Once Moran is taken care of, we should be able to find a place for you to live and perhaps even work. Would you prefer to stay somewhere in England? Italy might not be a bad place to consider –"

"What's wrong with London? And my own identity?" That had been the plan when Mycroft suggested faking his death to draw Moriarty and his minions out. That had been the plan he'd agreed to three years ago when he'd texted Mycroft from outside Kitty Riley's apartment. That had been the plan he'd been carrying out.

Mycroft, on the other hand, looked annoyingly sympathetic. "You've been dead for three years. While an undercover operation of several months may be reasonably explained away, do you really expect any of your old associates to welcome you back with a handshake and a pot of tea? They've moved on with their lives. They've accepted your absence. Coming back as yourself would cause far too much disruption."

"So I'll always be the disgraced fake genius?" Sherlock didn't want to admit how much that prospect bothered him, particularly not to Mycroft.

"John has done an admirable job of attempting to clear your name. Wouldn't it be easier to leave it at that, let them glorify you in memory, rather than deal with the media crush if you reappear?"

"You always did like the easy way," Sherlock hissed.

"Yes, mainly because it doesn't involve airing dirty laundry to the public at large." Mycroft stood and straightened his jacket. "Let me know what you decide."

"What if I refuse?" Sherlock would have crossed his arms, but that action was denied him, so he merely glared at his brother. "What if I choose to air the dirty laundry?"

Mycroft turned to him, lip compressed in a straight line. "We'll discuss it again when you've had a few days to heal and get your head on straight. But start thinking of aliases, won't you?"


	4. Social Anthropology

_The wind carries the promise of a hard winter, lashing the unexpected October rain against the windows of Pembroke's undergraduate hall. Mycroft hitches his books into a more secure location in the crook of his left arm and grasps the handle of his umbrella, prepared to swing it over his head as soon as the door opens. He's had his last lecture for the day, and the only thing that could tempt him out of the parlour just now is the knowledge that these books are due back at the library by closing._

_ If there's one thing he despises, it is people who neglect to return library books. At the moment, there are none of his usual circle around to inveigle into going for him._

_"Nothing for it," he mutters as he steps up to the door, hand out stretched._

_It is wrenched back before he can touch it, and a short figure barrels into him. Mycroft instinctively tightens his grasp on the books. The assailant clutches at his arms in an attempt to right himself, initiating the undignified dance that always accompanies such meetings. Mycroft manages to avoid braining the lad with his umbrella and disentangles himself as quickly as possible, sidestepping the damp patch on the floor. The boy is small, far too small to be a student._

_"Sherlock!" _

_A book slips between his arm and body and thuds to the floor. His brother dives for it and puts it back on the pile before he has a chance to say anything else. _Structural Models in Anthropology. _Mycroft knows a moment of regret, but it passes. No doubt it will see worse treatment at the hands of others._

_Sherlock's face is a study. Eyebrows knit together, the one deep crease between them that only comes when he's confused. A rare expression. He's been biting his lips. Nervous, then. His shoulders are pulled up defensively, though he's made an attempt to square them back a bit. Show of bravery. Curled fingers suggest tension. And then there's the fact that he's miles away from home standing in a parlour at Cambridge University on a stormy Thursday afternoon. There are only a limited number of reasons why an 11-year-old would do that._

_"Did you row with Masterson again?" he asks._

_ Sherlock sinks his nails into his palms and looks round the room before glancing back at his brother. "No. But we need to talk. You're done with your assignments for today, we can talk on the way to the library, right?"_

_It takes Mycroft a moment to follow. No paper or pen with his pile of books. His brother has been applying his skills well. Mycroft follows his eyes. There are only three other people in the room, but it's three too many for both of them, considering that all three are observing the exchange with not-so-mild interest._

_He nods toward the door._

_They share the umbrella. The rain drenches his left coat sleeve, but the books and Sherlock are shielded, so he'll accept the discomfort. Sherlock seems to have forgotten his demand for conversation, staring straight ahead as they take the long way round to the library. Mycroft doesn't push. He accepted years ago that his mercurial younger brother is never more taciturn than when he is expected to speak._

_The silence lasts until Mycroft has returned the books, picked up the two he had on reserve, and found a table for them in the farthest corner of the church history section, the area least likely to be inhabited midweek. Sherlock sits when Mycroft does, but still makes no effort to talk._

_Mycroft opens the_ International Political Science Review_ and skims the first few pages, flicking his eyes up to his brother's face every few paragraphs. Whatever it is, he's turning it over in his mind, deciding where to start. He wonders if Sherlock is feeling shy. An odd sentiment, to be sure, but to be expected when your brother has been absent for two and a half months. Typical. Not a word he usually applies to Sherlock._

_Sherlock catches his eye. "You should shave it off."_

_Mycroft instinctively raises a finger to trace the moustache he's been cultivating. "And why is that?"_

_"Because it's clearly because you want to look older and you think it makes you look smarter. You want to have a more impressive standing with your classmates. But you hate it. If not, you wouldn't be covering it up right now."_

_Mycroft puts his hand back on the table. Apparently not feeling shy. "Connections are an important thing to cultivate at university, Sherlock."_

_"Try doing it without looking like a prat. Then they might last."_

_There is an undeniable logic behind the words. Mycroft smiles his most nondescript smile and looks back down at his book._

_"He's having an affair."_

_Every muscle in his body clenches. He raises his eyes to Sherlock and knows his brother saw. "What?" he says carefully._

_"He's been staying in town on alternating nights every week. It's Mondays and Thursdays, then Wednesday, then Monday and Friday. And then it repeats. He's taken to wearing a different cologne – Marlborough. Mummy noticed two days ago, but he's been wearing it a month. So she didn't suggest it, and hasn't been around him enough to notice. Last night when he got in, he had a little box in his hand," Sherlock shows Mycroft a two-and-a-half inch square with his fingers. "When I asked him what it was, he told me to shut up and go to bed. Their anniversary isn't until March, and he nearly always forgets her birthday unless somebody reminds him."_

_Mycroft has always thought that obscenities were the sign of a weak vocabulary, a vulgarity inserted where one's proper words couldn't be called into line. But at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to swear at his father in as many languages as he had at his command. He'd said to keep the meetings random, not establish a pattern a child could follow. The idiocy of his progenitor was staggering. _

_"And?"_

_It's Sherlock's turn to tighten up. "What do you mean? We need to tell Mummy."_

_"No, we don't."_

_The stunned silence is very nearly painful. Sherlock is looking at him as if he's just said that the Seive of Eratosthenes is erroneous._

_"But she should know so she can decide what to do about it. She'll want to leave, I think. If Dad has already committed adultery, she can probably get a good settlement without taking it to court, and find a good place for herself."_

_"No," Mycroft repeats, though he's pleased there are no histrionics on the moral end of things. This is a logic-driven discussion."If she doesn't know, there's no reason for us to tell her."_

_He's bracing himself, waiting for Sherlock to piece together his words and body language. It takes only a few moments more._

_"You know."_

_"Yes."_

_"How long?"_

_"Since it began in late July."_

_The silence goes on a beat too long. "Why didn't you tell her?"_

_A fair question. Mycroft laces his fingers and puts them under his chin. "Because divorce is a distastefully _public_ thing, Sherlock. Particularly when your father is as rich as ours. Tabloids, rumours, dragging in all the extended family that we've never seen or cared to so they can comment on whether or not Mummy has been cheating, too. If she doesn't know, if he remains discreet, then all will be well. He'll probably tire of this one soon enough and come home."_

_"This one?"_

_Sometimes it's a curse having a younger brother as clever as yourself. "I can't confirm my suspicions, but the probability is that this is not his first."_

_Sherlock digests that. Mycroft can see him searching his memories to try and find the clues Mycroft had picked up on, but most of them were buried in his infancy. He's also anticipating the next question when Sherlock lobs it at him._

_"You've been helping him, haven't you?"_

_"Only with the logistics of it at the beginning. He wants to keep it a secret from Mummy, I agree that that would be best. He needed an excuse to remain in town of an evening, a place they'd be sure not to be seen. I merely helped him make decisions."_

_Sherlock's brow is creased again, but he stands, putting on the face of a much older boy. "I'm going to tell her."_

_"Sherlock, don't." He regrets the ultimatum as soon as it leaves his mouth, for Sherlock's entire bearing stiffens in protest. "It's none of your concern."_

_"But it's yours?" His voice is rising. Mycroft glances through the stacks, but they seem quite alone. "Don't you care that Mummy has the right to know?"_

_"It's not about caring. It's about managing the circumstances as you find them. You'll learn to do the same._

_Sherlock gives a stiff nod and steps away from the table. "Good-bye, Mycroft."_

_"Sherlock!" Mycroft calls in as urgent a whisper as he can manage. He grabs his umbrella follows his brother, well aware that Sherlock will be running before he reaches the doors. Sure enough, he's only halfway to the entrance when he hears the librarian's remonstrance and Sherlock's growling rejoinder. _

_He can just see Sherlock hopping into a car he gratefully recognizes as their own as he exits the building. He must have blackmailed Dennis into bringing him. He's already thinking about damage control. He could call Mummy and tell her… what? To ignore whatever Sherlock is about to come home and tell her? Tell her the truth before Sherlock can? The options all seem inadequate. Perhaps it would be best to simply wait and deal with it based on what Mummy's reaction is._

_In the meantime, it is time to shave off the blasted mustache._


	5. J'Adoube

Author's Note: Finally updated with the entire chapter! Sorry guys, had a murder mystery party to write (I was Mycroft, and one of my friends was Sherlock, and it was splendid), and a play to help with, and then I contracted a nasty chest cold and then my grandfather died. It has been a rather wild and somewhat miserable couple of weeks. Still - now I feel ready to plunge back into this! Hope you enjoy! As always, reviews are so greatly appreciated.

* * *

He must have deleted portions of this house from his mind. No, that wasn't exactly true. He knew the layout perfectly well, and he could probably still detail the progression of art from room to room. Mummy had always been a bit manic about being sure that each area of the house had its own style and artistic movement. But there was something about it that was… off. Not like his mind told him it would be. Had it really been four years since he'd last been here? The night The Woman had nearly undone both of them. And before that… must have been since his days at uni. Back when familial obligation had still held some sway.

He'd managed to knot his scarf into a makeshift sling. The second dose of morphine was wearing off and his mind was raging at the inactivity. The IV fluids had done their work, and he was left with an annoying pain in his arm, an otherwise perfectly healthy body, and a mind that was in desperate need of a distraction.

He took the first set of steps on the front staircase two at a time. The jarring his arm received was enough to convince him to walk sedately for the last 12 leading into the foyer. He spent the extra seconds scanning the treads of the stair to analyze wear patterns. Weak ones t best. There were not many visitors here since the last remodel. The house appeared quite deserted, but he didn't trust it. The walls had a way of swallowing the sounds of other people. Besides, if he knew his brother, Mycroft wouldn't trust anyone else as his watchdog. He'd escaped too many other pairs of eyes too many times.

There was only one place he could expect Mycroft to be. Sherlock crossed the foyer, took the left hallway, and hurried past the formal dining room and drawing room into the library. Three shelves to the right of the door, press the W on the third Churchill biography, and the panel swiveled inward.

Mycroft did not move his eyes from the monitor on his left. "You should still be in bed."

"Bored."

There was a proper office to the right of the foyer, replete with leather chairs, a large oaken desk, a stolid fireplace, and arched, mullioned windows that practically purred with the innate power of old money. It was the perfect place for Mycroft to entertain his parliamentary allies, cow the less stout-hearted of his opponents, and give the impression of complacent, drawling power.

But here, in the secret room they'd played in as boys, was Mycroft's true domain. Five monitors, each divided into quarters, were spaced across a long, unornamented desk and showed a constantly changing rotation of CCTV footage. Here were the file cabinets instead of bookshelves, a complex communications console instead of the proper black phone, and two laptops both open instead of the old-world appointment book.

Sherlock settled himself into the quite comfortable chair on the opposite side of the desk, scoffing slightly as he sank into the leather cushion. Mycroft never forbore creature comforts unless they were an absolute impossibility.

"Trouble in Uzbekistan?" he asked, slouching down to give his arm the best possible cushion.

"Closer to home."

Sherlock sharpened his gaze at the work station. Mycroft was being flippant. Mycroft was never flippant. The corner of the CCTV footage that was readily available to him wasn't a metropolis shot – it was wooded and seemed to be focused on a small lane. Royal family on holiday? He tilted his head so another screen was in view. Cameras from an intersection in a village. One by a bus stop. He narrowed his eyes to make out the name.

"Honestly, Mycroft, don't you think spying on your own house is a bit much, even for you? What would Her Majesty say?"

"She would say that I am completely at liberty to divert governmental resources to whatever project I deem necessary. I've never abused that trust and I don't intend to." Mycroft replied. Without breaking his methodical scan of the screens, he picked up a file from in front of him and held it out to Sherlock.

"Isn't it against the law to lie to royalty?" Sherlock muttered as he took the papers.

It was as he had expected, orders for local police to be on the lookout for Moran, a special ops team assigned to the village, and an exhaustive file tracking Moran's movements for the last 18 months.

"He won't come here."

Mycroft looked up at that, annoyed. He shook his head and swiveled his chair to the laptops. "He hasn't been spotted since Paris. It's been almost 24 hours. He will have to move soon, and we all know where he'll head when he does."

"Not to this old relic. Moran hunts best in the city."

"But his prey is in the country at present."

"So he'll wait."

"He's as impatient as you are to be done with this. He'll come to us."

"You don't know him as well as you think."

"Would you care to enlighten me, then?"

Sherlock blinked. There was heat, actual heat in his brother's voice. Mycroft kept his eyes on the screen as he typed out a terse message and clicked Send, but every line of his body suggested tension beyond his usual stiff carriage.

"What do y-"

Mycroft placed his hands precisely on either side of the laptop and turned to face him, voice returned to ice. "If I am to prepare for an assassination attempt, any information on the gunman can be crucial to his capture. I've gathered what I can through my networks –"

"A travel itinerary. Nothing more."

"Precisely. Because since Moriarty blew his own brains out, Moran hasn't given anyone the chance to get close enough to be a mole for us. He works alone, never with the same people, and the only signature we have on him is his gun type. So, if you've learnt any more than that, and I expect you have, you might make yourself useful by sharing it."

Sherlock held the team dossier up to the light. The slightest staining on the right edge. Coffee, too dark for tea, particularly with the amount of cream Mycroft generally used. Black coffee was Mycroft's drink of choice when he particularly felt the need to focus. The bitterness, he supposed.

"I don't want to relocate," he said, lowering the paper so that he could see Mycroft's face. "I want my own name and my own life back."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but there was something off about his expression. The cheek muscles were tighter than usual, pinched, almost.

"Sherlock," he said slowly. "We are discussing how to keep you alive so that you can hopefully have a life at all when this is over. What name you use and where you live is immaterial at this moment."

"I think it's quite material."

"At the moment, what you think is also immaterial."

Mycroft's mobile buzzed, breaking the glare. Mycroft glanced down and raised his eyebrows as he brought it to his ear. Sherlock didn't move, but every sense tuned to the conversation.

"Holmes."

A crease between the eyebrows. Perceptibly more authoritative tone in his next words.

"Any change?"

Smoothed out almost at once, replaced by a looseness at the corners of his mouth that looked like the beginning of a smile. His eyes shifted up and left – remembering something, or deciding.

"No, I don't think I'll make it over this week."

"I'll try to rearrange my schedule for next Tuesday, if that's convenient."

He clicked a pin and scribbled a note on his shirt cuff. Such an odd habit his brother had, the one thing that betrayed that he was not quite like the rest of the population. Sherlock had always found this chink in Mycroft's ordinary armor amusing.

"Make my apologies to her, won't you? Urgent business, you understand."

A brief nod, the calculatedly polite smile Mycroft adopted when listening to unimportant information. It was the final confirmation Sherlock needed.

"Thank you."

The exchange had taken perhaps a minute and a half. Mycroft lowered the phone and gave a quiet sigh.

"No need to cancel on Mummy on my account," Sherlock said stiffly.

"I don't have time to arrange the security details necessary for me to leave you here." Mycroft braced his right hand on the chair arm and shifted his position. "Besides, if Moran is in the area, I don't want him following me to St. Rita's."

"It would be his type of game, if he felt he couldn't get to me any other way."

"So he will use collateral damage willingly?" Mycroft leaned forward, pen at the ready.

"The Chapulniks."

"That was Moran?"

"You didn't know?" Sherlock was genuinely surprised.

"It was so far from his usual MO, he was eliminated from the suspects early on." Mycroft brought his fingers together in front of him. "That kind of collateral is extreme."

"Why do you think I was in Prague?"

"Tracking down Dvorak and Clima."

"No, I'd decided to let your men handle those two dolts," Sherlock smirked. "But I got wind that Moran was traveling to Prague and thought I'd try and intercept him. Chapulnik was playing things so close that Moran could never get at him. So –" He spread his hands expressively.

"So he killed half the family before Chapulnik caved," Mycroft finished. His eyes narrowed. "We thought it was Redmon. An American matching one of his aliases arrived in Prague two days before everything began."

"Must have been a coincidence. I was there. It was definitely Moran."

"Right." Mycroft turned his head back to the security monitors. "I'll need to speak to Gilmore about upping our surveillance at St. Rita's."

"Don't make too many changes, or Moran will lock on to the place just because things are being done differently. How many people know that our mother is a patient there?"

"As few as possible."

"Then let it be for now. When we have it confirmed that Moran is heading this way, we can take precautions."

Mycroft clearly did not like the idea of taking Sherlock's advice. His mouth contorted into a most ridiculous sneer, and his brows lowered till he looked for the world like an irritated owl. But after a moment, he nodded and put the pen down.

"The change in routine might not be good for Mummy."

Sherlock half-opened his mouth to inquire, but held back. The last time the subject of Mummy had be "discussed" between them, it had ended with Mycroft actually slamming the door of 221B on his way out and Sherlock catching himself playing Lullay Myn Lyking on his violin – a sentimental moment to which Mycroft, thankfully, would never be privy.

"She's about the same." Mycroft said. Apparently he had caught Sherlock's unasked question. "Some weeks she knows my name, others she can't quite recall. Three weeks ago, she called me Siger, which was surprising because she hasn't mentioned Father in months. Her doctors say this stage is often the longest. Could be months before she gets any worse."

"Ah."

The silence was singularly restrained. Whatever Mycroft was thinking, he managed to erase it almost entirely from his features. A bit of a fugue state, definitely. He tended to react this way whenever Mummy was discussed. As usual, it was short-lived.

"Anything else you can tell me about Moran?"

"Anything else you can tell me about when I can move back to London?"

Mycroft frowned. "Not at this time, no."

"Then neither do I."

He made his way to the back staircase and walked the length of the second floor, naming doorways as he went. Sitting room. Third guest bedroom. Loo. Second guest bedroom. Mycroft's room. His room.

Placing them side by side and on the far side of the house from their own suite had been an act of convenience for his parents, Sherlock was sure, though why they hadn't thought to make Mycroft the closest to the stairs was beyond him. It had been a good arrangement while they were young enough to not wish to torment one another. He paused at the door, hand idling toward the knob, but stopped. No need. Whatever sentiment drove people to mawkish reminiscences in childhood locales seemed a complete waste of time and mental energy.

He had too many other things to think about to waste time on the ancient past.


	6. Economics

_The last visitors have been seen to the door. "Mourners" would be too polite a word for it. Few people on earth would mourn Siger Holmes' passing, a reality that Mycroft accepts, even as he vaguely regrets it. The man had never been a model father, an excellent businessman or even a particularly good lover, judging by the handful of infidelities he's helped hush up. He was a man whose greatest accomplishments had been disappointing nearly everyone around him._

_Mycroft pauses for a moment at the stairs. Mummy has been up in her room for nearly an hour. A widow leaving a wake early is always acceptable and proper. No one commented on her apparent confusion. He is thankful for small favors. It would be as well to let her sleep, he decides, turning his steps toward the library. He has no desire see her or anyone at present._

_"Anything I can get you, sir?"Dennis asks from his immediate right._

_Mycroft physically jumps at the sound, a surprising reaction for both of them. "No, Dennis, thank you. I'll be off to bed myself soon. Back to London first thing."_

_"Good evening, then, sir." Dennis says, keeping his tone professional and respectful. As it should be, as Mycroft is officially his employer now. Convenient of Siger Holmes to crash his auto after his son turned 21, and his wife had been diagnosed with –_

_Mycroft turns sharply into the library, not letting his mind continue on its chosen path, willing it instead onto the amount of paperwork he'd need to bring with him. Only four months in The Treasury and he couldn't very well stay in the country indefinitely. His superiors informed him that an unexpected death was considered reason enough to take an extended leave of absence, but he's been making headway with the budgetary plans and doesn't want to be taken off the project. The minister is already taking note, just as he is supposed to. Mycroft's ambitions are too well structured to allow for deviation._

_The decanter on the table by the fireplace looks inviting. Mycroft doesn't even particularly care what is in it. The last three weeks have been hell, and he may, for once in his life, get utterly plastered, now he can._

_It takes only long enough to fill the tumbler with amber liquid to realize that staying in the library is a bad option. The firelight gives his eyes a hundred new details to take in each moment, and what he really wants now is darkness. Darkness that will give his mind a moment of rest. Nothing to observe, nothing to deduce, nothing to fix so it's manageable to the rest of the world. Just a dark room and some Scotch and, hopefully, oblivion._

_He's only three steps toward the shelf with the Churchill biographies when he hears the hesitant breathing behind him. He turns to find Sherlock standing irresolutely in the door._

_"Mycroft," he says quietly, without expression._

_"Sherlock."_

_The boy has shot up in the last three months. Barely 14 and he'll be taller than Mycroft at this rate, and still as thin as a paper doll. Mycroft frowns, straightening his spine so the few extra pounds he's gained since graduation are not as noticeable. Sherlock is clad in flannel pyjamas and a grey robe that are all just overly-short enough to be noticeable. He makes a mental note to send new ones to Sherlock's school. He doubts Mummy has been keeping up with such things._

_"Did you want something?" he asks as Sherlock continues to stand there._

_"Did you?"_

_The words are not mimicry or a taunt. Mycroft knows what Sherlock is asking, and the calm way the question was delivered fills him with dread._

_"Beg your pardon?" he says smoothly, taking a sip of the Scotch._

_"You said – you said, then…" Sherlock isn't completing his thoughts. Mycroft is well aware that this is not because they are incomplete in his head._

_He takes another, larger sip, his mind taking him back three weeks despite himself. They'd been gathered in this very room – a rare moment when all four Holmes had been together what with Sherlock in public school and Mycroft living in London now. To this day, he wasn't certain how Mummy had managed it. The evening had the pall of dread over it, though, and Mummy hadn't disappointed. That one awful word…_

_But this is not the moment to which Sherlock is referring. Mycroft drags himself out of this memory and back into the dim, flickering library._

_"I was tired, as I am now. If there's nothing you want, I'll say good-night."_

_Sherlock doesn't budge from the door. He's studying Mycroft, and not with the boy's eyes he'd had even two months ago. Though he had never been a typical child, he had been a _child_ before all this began. Mycroft acknowledges the shift with an almost imperceptible toast as he raises the tumbler again. _

_"You could have," he says after several long moments. "I know you could have. I just don't know if you _did_."_

_"Would you fault me if I did?" Mycroft asks. He finds, as the words leave his mouth, that he's very interested in the answer._

_Sherlock blinks at him. In that moment, they are back in the car that would take Sherlock to school and Mycroft to his flat in town. Siger Holmes is standing in the driveway, a nervous smile twitching at more facial muscles than necessary._

_"Boys, you should know," he says, leaning in the window on Mycroft's side. "I-I'm not going to be here in a few weeks. I'll be living in London now." He pauses, as if expecting questions. He receives only two perfectly blank expressions. "Your mother and I – well, with her condition and all… she agrees… we're going to separate for a time, maybe permanently. I don't know yet. We'll see. Just – just thought you'd…"_

Good lord, man, stop babbling,_ Mycroft thinks. Neither brother says a word._

_"Well, Mycroft, I expect I'll be seeing more of you, then. Sherlock, have a good rest of term." Siger steps back from the car and Mycroft accelerates just fast enough to kick up dust on his father as they drive away._

_When they reach the lane, he glances over at Sherlock. The boy's face is white, but his expression hasn't changed. It's more than anyone should be asked to bear in one weekend. The disease that would claim their mother's mind is terrifying enough without the idea of her facing it alone because their father couldn't be bothered to deal with it. _

_Mycroft sets his jaw. The tiny motion seems to catch Sherlock's attention, or perhaps it's the fact they haven't turned onto the road yet. He turns to Mycroft and raises his eyebrows._

_Mycroft meets his eyes and says, foolishly. "I'll kill him."_

_Not so absurd, then, that his brother should stand here a mere three weeks later, with Mycroft still in his funereal suit, asking without really asking. A car crash is a pathetic way to make an exit, and one that is usually open to suspicion. Sherlock is simply putting facts together and coming to the obvious conclusion._

_"I don't know," Sherlock says finally. "Maybe I'll know if you tell me."_

_"Don't be absurd, Sherlock," Mycroft says gruffly, taking an even larger swig. The whiskey burns his throat, but focuses his mind on the current moment._

_"Should I take that as a confession?"_

_"You can take it however you please."_

_"Mycroft."_

_Mycroft meets his eyes as he did in the car. There's desperation there, carefully hooded, but definitely present. Fear. It frightens him to think of Mycroft as a murderer. That's all to the good, he supposes. But that desperation. It's not just a longing to know. He's seen that light in his brother's eyes too many times. It's a desire for order. A logical conclusion as to why their lives have been turned inside out._

_And Mycroft can't give it to him. Of all his failings as a big brother, this one will be the greatest._

_"I'm not going to answer such a ridiculous question," he says finally._

_Sherlock strides up to him, stretching himself until they are almost nose to nose. "It's not ridiculous. Tell me."_

_The look in his eyes is a terrible mix of expectation and trembling. And Mycroft sees a way out._

_"Consider what you know and make a deduction," he says coldly._

_Sherlock pulls back, surprised. Mycroft presses his advantage._

_"In the end, does it really matter?"_

_Sherlock's brows furrow, making him look older than he has any right to look for decades. "Managing circumstances, then, brother?" he says quietly._

_"Perhaps." Mycroft drains the last of his glass and sets it down precisely on the table, barely making a sound in the stillness of the room. He walks past Sherlock to the door. The sight of him standing in the middle of the rug is wrenching but necessary._

_"Good night, Sherlock," he says._

_Sherlock does not respond._


	7. Bad Bishop

**Author's Note:** I apologize for the long delay. I wrote a 45,000 word PotterWhoLock fic for a friend as a Christmas present and well... it was time-consuming. But I'm truly thrilled to pick this story up again! Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Mycroft had an absurd amount of satsumas in the refrigerator.

So, older brother had been more stressed than usual lately. It was one of the many odd quirks of Mycroft that when under stress he, rather than indulging his sweet tooth, restricted himself to a diet that could almost be called… Sherlockian. Sherlock smiled as the word materialized in his mind. Mycroft would be annoyed by that, however apt the descriptor.

He took two from the shelf and proceeded to shove one in his pocket and peel the other, letting his mind travel far from the old house. While Sherlock wasn't sentimental enough to believe that the fruits-and-vegetables-only state of the refrigerator was solely because of his recent misadventures, it was more than probable that Moran figured into it strongly. The master assassin had lost the protection of Moriarty's network and gained a certain rakish aplomb to his strikes. Sherlock found the "catch me if you can" attitude amusing, but Mycroft no doubt saw it as a reason for concern. Moran's kills had become more aggressive, more theatrical, which to Sherlock's mind meant it was only a matter of time before he left a crucial clue in his showmanship. Mycroft would be worried about things like political repercussions and if Moran would start going for even higher-profile contracts.

For Mycroft, Sherlock had learned long ago, life was a balancing act. It was all well and good for there to be assassins and terrorists in the world, for they reminded nations of what needed protecting and could drag governments out of infighting and into accord on almost anything, something Mycroft used to his advantage often. But let the darker elements begin to gain control, and Older Brother was the leader of the witch hunt. Or rather, the navigator, telling the hunters precisely which dark hollows to investigate and which to leave alone. People often accused Sherlock of having no conscience, of not caring about people, but Sherlock had learned detachment from the master manipulator who pulled the strings of more countries than Sherlock cared to know…but who, unlike his brother, could still fall prey to the basest sentimentality.

Sherlock popped the last section of satsuma in his mouth and tossed the peelings into a potted plant that stood on the table by the staircase. He'd officially made a complete circuit of the house and found nothing more interesting than the contents of the refrigerator to distract him, which meant his one concession to Mycroft's concerns was at an end. With any luck, Mycroft had been too preoccupied to hide his mobile and laptop any place truly clever. He needed to look at Moran's file, see if he could make a solid prediction of his next move.

It took him 8 minutes and 16 seconds of searching to find his laptop bag, mobile tucked into the outer pocket. Mycroft had left it in his ornate office off the foyer, presumably dropped off by the team of operatives who had been in charge of his transport. He knew it had been searched. There was no point in thinking otherwise. And given the fact that the power cords for both machines were missing, Mycroft had put enough thought into the situation to keep him from getting too connected to the outside world. Sherlock collected the bag and returned to the third-floor room. Mycroft had left his own mobile charger plugged in next to Sherlock's bed.

The laptop still had enough battery to power up for him. Sherlock, letting his arm rest against the pillows with an almost reluctant sigh of relief, skimmed through his files on Moran. He had no immediate contracts that Sherlock had been able to discover. It was entirely possible that the sniper would take the opportunity to try and do Sherlock in, especially considering the number of times Sherlock had inconvenienced him in recent weeks.

Sherlock closed his eyes to think. He was still convinced that Moran would not come to the country. What would he do in Moran's position?

_Entice my prey to a city. A familiar hunting ground. London. _

So far, so obvious. Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes at himself. How, then, would Moran decide to lure him to the metropolis?

_Set up a case too unique to pass up? Something related to national security so Mycroft would be forced to let Younger Brother off his leash? Or a string of killings? Something Sherlock would recognize as an invitation to come play? Or… _

The idea came to him with a sickening, quiet clarity. If he were Moran, he would use the strategy his former boss had found so effective. It only made good sense.

He fumbled for the mobile, growling at it when it did not turn on, and again when he dropped it off the bed in his scramble for the power cord. In a minute that seemed much longer, despite his internal chronometer, he had plugged the device in and turned it on. No new messages from anyone. He touched the messaging icon and let the text list load. Mycroft, the inspector from Venice, and Molly. He selected the last name, but hesitated, thumbs at the ready, before typing.

_Back in England. – SH_

He flipped the phone impatiently in the air and re-read his notes on Moran's stalking style. He was patient to the edge of legend, but worked with an inexorable efficiency. In a city, he was unparalleled for his ability to melt into crowds and keep his prey in his crosshairs.

_That's good! Coming back to stay, then? _

He could hear the stuttering hope in her voice through the text. Molly had been invaluable in faking his death, but not as subtle as she thought about expressing her dismay that he was leaving the country.

_Possibly. Recuperating at Mycroft's right now. - SH_

He sent the message and began typing the next without waiting for her reply.

_Have you heard anything from Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or John recently? Within the last 24 hours? - SH_

He had already connected to Mycroft's network on the laptop and was searching for his CCTV connection. It would be easier.

His phone vibrated three times in quick succession.

_Recuperating? What happened? Are you alright? Do you need me to help with anything? I've got a holiday planned soon, but I could take off now, if you'd like. But only if you'd like. I know you've probably got it sorted, but I'd like to be of help if I can. Mycroft will have it all in hand, I'm sure. He said you'd be well taken care of if something happened to you._

Sherlock sighed. Not the part he wanted answered. But because it was Molly…

_Peripheral gunshot wound. Promptly tended. I'm sure my brother has made arrangements for physical therapy. Currently just bored. - SH_

He'd barely hit send when Molly's next reply came in. His computer had just connected to the security cameras within St. Bart's.

_Haven't heard from any of them in a few days. Lestrade sent me a card on my birthday. Still in admin, no field work. Mrs. Hudson went on holiday last week, won't be back till Tuesday. John is still working here. I saw him in the canteen two days ago. Seems healthy._

Sherlock did not greet the news with relief. Moran couldn't have been in London more than a few hours. The likelihood of a strike was slim. He clicked through the various camera angles, searching for the familiar form of the assassin he'd been tailing for months.

His phone buzzed again.

_John is on duty this evening. Anything you want to know?_

He hesitated, keeping his eyes on the screen. Molly could most likely find a way to warn John, but she was more than transparent about such things. He clicked through a few more cameras, isolating three doctors who fit Moran's build. None of them matched his face, though. Was there anything he wanted to know about John? He moved on to the next floor.

Rather than answer Molly, he sent a text to Mycroft.

_How tightly are you monitoring St. Bart's?_

The next floor yielded no results as well. Sherlock leaned back. John and Molly were too conveniently located in one building. Moran would take advantage of that. He wouldn't bother the helpless old lady at the seashore, and he would probably assume that Lestrade was no longer a key player in the story. No, he would focus on St. Bart's. Given his personality, the man was probably predisposed to go there anyway, wanting to draw Sherlock to the place Moriarty had died.

Sherlock clicked on the next camera, only to have the screen suddenly go black. He frowned. The battery had at least 30% capacity left. Why, then, would it –

He didn't have a chance to finish the question in his mind. Mycroft entered the room, a scowl Sherlock hadn't seen from him in a decade rumpling his face.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mycroft asked, his voice smooth but dark.

Sherlock smiled blandly. "Shopping for Christmas presents."

"Did you think I wouldn't know when you opened the program? I'm not so dense as you believe me, brother." Mycroft planted himself at the foot of the bed, stance and expression resembling their father so mightily that Sherlock felt an actual tendril of unease awaken in his stomach. But it was measured, controlled Mycroft, not unpredictable Siger Holmes, and Sherlock had never, ever feared his brother.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began in the same smooth, dark tone. "The reason you are here and not back in London is that this is the safest place for you. As you pointed out, Moran is in his natural habitat in the city. We are virtually impregnable here. He can't get to you. So I don't see why you feel the need to put yourself back in harm's way by communicating with those in London."

"Aren't you leaving _them_ in harm's way?" Sherlock snapped. "He'll go after them, Mycroft. He's going to go after them to get to me."

He didn't like the way his brother's face softened at his words. It was Mycroft's paternal look, one that had been welcome only until age three.

"Sherlock, do you honestly think I'd be foolish enough to risk that happening again? We used it to our advantage once. I know it won't work again. I've had two operatives employed at St. Bart's almost since the day of Moriarty's death. They report to me at the end of every shift. If anything changes at the hospital, we'll know."

The gentleness sat as uneasily on Mycroft as it did Sherlock. He frowned.

"What? No speeches about how not caring would make this simpler or why detachment is the only way we can function effectively?"

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "Would you listen if I gave one?"

Sherlock set his jaw and looked down at the mobile. Molly's text was illuminated on the screen.

"Precisely," Mycroft said after another moment of silence. "Now, I have work to do. The situation in Lithuania isn't looking good, and they want me at the office, but telecommunications will have to do. I'd ask for your word not to meddle, but I'll settle for a reminder – I have control of the security systems and surveillance of this house. Think about that before you act."

He was still being too kind about the whole thing. Sherlock had all but admitted that his concern for his friends in London oustripped his desire to catch Moran, the final piece of Moriarty's network, and the one most likely to rebuild it if left free. It was an attitude Sherlock himself barely recognized, but to Mycroft it would be near-treason. But his brother was already almost to the door, having delivered scarcely a slap on the wrist for his lack of focus. Sherlock fished in his pocket.

"Mycroft."

He turned at the door, eyes on his mobile. Sherlock tossed the second satsuma toward him. Mycroft glanced up and let his left hand snake out to catch it, still typing with his right.

"You've missed dinner. Wouldn't want the Lithuanians to see you faint."


	8. Anatomy and Physiology

_The call comes as he is locking his office. He can hear the phone through the door, the digitized low tone he prefers to the brighter, more obnoxious tones so common on office phones._

_He pauses, taking the length of a ring to consider. He could let it go to voicemail and see to it in the morning. Considering it was after 10 p.m., whoever it was could hardly have expected to have reached him anyway. He could go home and check his voicemail from his home office, affording himself the comfort of dealing with whatever it was while enjoying a nightcap. He could page his assistant to check it and notify him if it required immediate attention._

_But he re-inserts his key and pulls on the door with a resigned sigh. The probability is that it is something urgent. Or it could be Sherlock._

_The idea propels him into the room a bit faster. He hasn't heard from Sherlock in several weeks – not unusual in itself, but the private investigator he has tailing Sherlock hasn't contacted him either. Mycroft has been focusing on the impending war in Afghanistan rather than worrying about that. To his credit, he is now better educated on the region and the most likely outcomes of an invasion than the rest of the UN put together. He scoops up the phone on the third ring._

"_Holmes."_

"_Is this Mycroft Holmes?" asks an expressionless female voice on the other end._

"_Yes."_

"_Mr. Holmes, you are listed as the next of kin for Sherlock Holmes."_

_For a nanosecond, Mycroft stops functioning. The breath he was beginning freezes, the sound of the woman's voice vanishes, the office disappears from before his eyes. It's come. The day he has expected since a frustrated 8-year-old Sherlock had asked if a person could choose to die rather than wait for it to happen._

_His senses restart. "Yes."_

"_Your brother was brought in to casualty suffering from respiratory depression. He appears to have overdosed."_

_The cold control is asserting itself. He can feel it starting in his bloodless fingers and creeping into his trunk, the icy efficiency that keeps him functioning in a crisis. "Have they determined what drug?"_

"_The toxicity screens are still being run," she says._

"_He most often uses cocaine, but occasionally morphine and heroin," he interrupts. "If it's respiratory depression, it is most likely an opioid, correct?"_

"_The doctors are examining him now," the woman says, a hint of annoyance in her voice. "Will you come?"_

"_What's the address?"_

_At St. Bart's, he's directed to a bed with the curtain drawn round. There is no flurry of activity, no agitated orders from doctors. Mycroft does not react to the information, though he knows relief would be appropriate. They are not fighting to keep him alive, which means the crisis is already past. Still, it is this initial lack of reaction that enables the next. He opens the curtain to see his brother on the bed, oxygen mask on his face, an intravenous drip in his left arm, and the wires from a heart monitor sprawling across his chest – and does not react. Even as he catalogues the needle scars on both forearms, takes in the normal heart rhythm, reads the Nalorphine label on the IV drip, he's acutely aware that he is breathing at his normal rate, his body is moving toward the chair to Sherlock's right, and he's placing his briefcase precisely on the floor beside him. This is no different than a diplomatic crisis in Korea, or a secret leaked to the wrong source. Something to be assessed and dealt with._

_Still, Sherlock is so still, his body so…disarranged in the bed, as if he has been heaved there and left while they attended to the more important details of saving his life. A hot streak of guilt cuts across his chest. He never should have allowed Sherlock so much freedom. _

_He takes out the folder he brought with him. MI6 has been working on a series of encoded messages that seemed to have originated in Iraq and were being dispersed to several key cities in Europe. Everyone sees a terrorist behind every statue and flagpole these days, but this, at least, appears to be legitimate. He'd been given the information that evening with a request to look over the messages and see if he could crack the code. It seems as good a way as any to pass the time._

_He stares at the printouts. _Sherlock would enjoy this, _he thinks._

_His brother is in desperate need of intellectual stimulation. He'd originally turned to the drugs out of boredom, but since his graduation, the condition has become almost chronic. Mycroft is tired of paying off dealers to regulate Sherlock's supply. Tonight proves that no amount of oversight from afar will keep him safe._

_Sherlock's eyes open. Mycroft does not move, gauging instead his brother's reactions. The tiniest spasm of the muscles in his arms and legs – surprise, confusion. The heart monitor speeds up for several breaths, then levels out almost at once. He understands, then. Mycroft lowers the paper, prepared to give him a genuine smile of welcome, but the expression on Sherlock's face is clear, despite the oxygen mask._

_Disappointment._

"_It's Wednesday night, 11:18," Mycroft says, consulting his watch. "According to the nurse in admissions, some tramp dropped you off outside casualty at approximately 9:45."_

_Sherlock moves both arms experimentally, then chooses the right one to reach up and push the oxygen mask aside._

"_I didn't expect such prompt service."_

_Mycroft motions him to replace the mask, which Sherlock does, much to his surprise. "If you want to overdose and kill yourself, it is best not to do so within hailing distance of a hospital."_

"_I'll remember that."_

_His voice is hoarse, and his body tells its own story of the damage he's inflicted on it. Mycroft rubs his hand across his chin, but does not reply. Sherlock's expression says he knows what Mycroft is doing._

"_Let me guess, another rehab?" Sherlock says._

"_What choice do I have?"_

"_You could leave me alone."_

"_No."_

"_I'll just walk out again."_

_Mycroft leans back and steeples his fingers under his chin. "The first two times I tried this, you had done nothing but experiment. Those programs were voluntary, low-security. But now, Sherlock, you've proven that you can't be trusted. I'll –"_

_Sherlock shoves the mask aside. "Trusted? Since when have you trusted me?"_

_The words sting, as Sherlock intended, but Mycroft does not let them penetrate. "If nothing else, your mind is a valuable resource. I need it functioning."_

"_Why do you think I keep trying to avoid that?"_

_Mycroft sighs. There's no talking to Sherlock when he's in such a mood, and considering the haze of the drugs still in his system, it's hardly worth the effort. They sit in silence for about 40 seconds._

"_How do you do it?"_

_Sherlock's voice isn't confrontational, it isn't mocking, but it's not quite sincere – as if he's asking but doesn't expect the answer to be helpful. Mycroft raises his eyebrows and waits for more. Sherlock frowns at him._

"_You know what I mean. You have to have felt this way, too, even if you are as lazy as an old cat. How do you do it?"_

_Mycroft lets his expression carry the reproof and keeps his voice perfectly level. "I work."_

_The idea has been forming for a while, but now seems as good a time as any to put it in motion. Mycroft shifts the papers in his lap and opens his mouth to speak. The curtain pulls back, and a man in a white coat steps in. Mycroft assesses him - the hairstyle and crisp lines of his coat speak of a young doctor anxious to be taken seriously. The lines under his eyes are not just from late nights in casualty, and given the way he's sinking his fingernails into his left palm, he's under stress from something non-work-related. A distracted, egotistical doctor is not the one Mycroft wants looking after his brother._

"_Well, then, you're –"_

"_Could I speak to you in private, Doctor?" Mycroft interrupts smoothly. He catches Sherlock's smirk out of the corner of his eye._

"_Ah, yes, um… and you are?" the man asks, turning to face him with no small amount of confusion._

_Mycroft smiles blandly and places his folder on Sherlock's bed as he stands. "Mycroft Holmes, this fellow's brother. I'd like to clarify a few things with you."_

_He allows the doctor to fumble through checking the IV and vital signs, using an eyebrow quirk or two and a shift in weight to convince the man that Sherlock ought to stay overnight. Sherlock can scowl all he'd like, but it's one of the only ways Mycroft can ensure he'll get a night in a decent bed and proper nourishment._

_He has little recollection of his conversation in the hallway. Sherlock had apparently tried to create his own blend of speedball, a mixture of heroin and cocaine, and misjudged the dosages. Or the dealer had lied to him. Mycroft makes a note to arrange a few meetings tomorrow. Sherlock will be transferred to a private room and assigned another doctor within the hour. It is likely that the after effects will be gone within 36 hours, but he'll be quite wrung out._

_Mycroft thanks the doctor and walks back into the curtained area. Sherlock has dozed off again, oxygen mask hanging halfway off his face. But Mycroft's folder is under his left hand, and his right still holds the pen he took from God knows where. Mycroft eases the topmost paper out._

_The page number 57 is circled, as are a number of letters in the incomprehensible string. A glance shows the pattern. Every fifth and seventh letter is meaningful. Mycroft smiles. Less than five minutes, while recovering from an overdose. The answer is clear._

"_I told you, Sherlock," he says quietly. "You beat it with work."_


	9. Berserker

Author's note: Sorry this is so late, guys. My computer died last Friday, when I was about two paragraphs from completing the chapter, and I had to wait until I got my new computer and had time to recreate the whole thing. Regardless - hope you enjoy it now!

* * *

His phone buzzed in his hand, taking his mind off the annoyingly distracting nausea roiling in his abdomen. Morphine in low-level doses had never been kind to him.

_I can't tell him that, Sherlock._

Sherlock clutched the phone and resisted the urge to throw it at the man walking in the door only when he realized it wasn't Mycroft. Dr. Scofield was too valuable as a potential ally to cast away on a moment of irritation.

"How are you feeling?" asked the doctor, his perfunctory tone and stiff carriage belying any attempt at a bedside manner.

Sherlock leaned back against the pillows and set his thumbs to work again. "Much better."

"Good, good."

_Then go to his supervisor. Tell him you're noticing signs of PTSD again. Anything. You just need to adjust his schedule a bit. It's not that difficult. SH_

Dr. Scofield withdrew a vial from his bag and set it precisely on the bedside table. Sherlock caught the flash of a very expensive watch on his wrist, certainly above what a medic for MI6 could afford. So, the doctor had connections of some sort. He swept the man with a glance, taking in the simple haircut, the slightly worn cuffs of his pants, the rather posh look to the frames of his glasses, the bulge of a company-issued mobile in his jacket pocket. He was trying to impress someone, a romantic interest with higher status that he, but on a medic's budget. Spending on the flashier pieces, not bothering with the little details that really sell an appearance of wealth. Most likely someone higher up in MI6. His shirt was a deep cobalt blue. If he'd wanted to impress a superior, he'd be wearing classic colors – white, pale blue, perhaps a grey. But the blue… Sherlock let his mind run through pecking order at MI6, cursing the sluggishness still clinging to his thought processes. PA to someone in the top offices.

His phone buzzed.

_Why can't you just tell me what's wrong?_

Sherlock looked up at the doctor with a smile and held up the phone. "Women. Won't stop harassing you, even when you have a legitimate excuse to cancel."

The doctor's lips flattened into a straight line. "Some excuses are more legitimate than others."

Ah, so the good physician was missing out on a date to come play drug delivery boy. No, given the time it was likely he'd had to cut one off early. And it was clear that he had no fondness for the job.

"Listen, Doctor," Sherlock said, leaning in conspiratorially. "You haven't got that stuff in pill form, have you? I don't like needles much."

"Your brother gave explicit instructions that I was to come out, deliver one dose of morphine subcutaneously or intravenously, and leave. I believe he also specified that talking to you was entirely optional, and rather discouraged."

"Ah yes, my dear protective brother," Sherlock said, still keeping the friendly tone. "But you see, I'm doing much better, and I'd rather just keep the morphine for when I might need it. Arm's not hurting so much just now."

"Sorry. You can refuse the drug, and I legally can't give it to you, but then I'd have to inform your brother of that fact."

For all his terrible judgement in the area of cologne choices, it was clear Dr. Scofield was no fool. Sherlock weighed his options. He needed his mind clear. The morphine would make him drowsy and probably bring on another headache. If he refused it, Mycroft would immediately go on alert, and it was hard enough sneaking around big brother's protections in normal times. He picked up his mobile again.

"Oh, very well. But if you could maybe not administer all of it? I've a horror of becoming addicted to the stuff."

_I can't explain. No proof as yet. But you and John shouldn't be working at the same time for the foreseeable future. Just do it. SH_

Dr. Scofield snorted. "Do you really think your brother didn't tell me about your history?" Sherlock ground his teeth, and Dr. Scofield managed his first real smile. "Now, I'm going to give you this dose. For all I care, it can be your last. In fact, if you want to tell Mycroft that you don't require my services any longer, I would be delighted. However, this dose will do you no harm, some good, and giving it to you will allow me to get back to a certain someone before midnight. Fair enough?"

Sherlock nodded. This man could be very useful. He glanced down at his phone and rubbed his thumb across the screen. "I envy you that. I have someone in London I'm anxious to get back to myself."

As if on cue, his phone buzzed again. _Bless you, Molly Hooper, _he thought as he opened the message.

_I can't promise anything. And John's going to get suspicious if I push too hard. Just tell me._

He let a wistful smile loosen his lips. "She's doing her best to be patient."

Dr. Scofield made no answer, but Sherlock noted a bit more care in the way he set about administering the dosage. People were so predictable. Camaraderie was such a powerful tool.

As soon as he heard the car starting up in the driveway, Sherlock was up. Mycroft would be holding court in his regular office, which mean the computer he wanted to access would be unoccupied. Mycroft would know the moment the secret panel opened, but Sherlock estimated he had at least three and a half minutes for Mycroft to gracefully extricate himself from the negotiations and do anything about it.

Mycroft's password was 1984. One of his old standbys, meaning he either hadn't thought to change it with Sherlock in the house, or had decided that attempting to keep him off the computer wasn't worth his time and energy. Either answer surprised him, though he thought it more likely that Mycroft had been too distracted with international affairs to bother with passwords. Two of the CCTV screens were already showing views of St. Bart's internal security cameras, but that wasn't what Sherlock was most concerned with.

He punched in the query and drew up the cameras posted to the outside of the building. The ambulance lane was well covered, and there were two cameras on each face of the building. Hardly extensive protection, and Moran worked best at a distance. He clicked through them, analyzing the buildings across from the hospital. Too many windows. Too many opportunities for a man with a gun and a good eye.

_Mycroft will have thought of that._ Sherlock ground the heel of his palm into his forehead where the locus of his headache was telling him to trust his brother's obsessive oversight. He couldn't. Mycroft had been wrong before. And his brother had never understood the idea of putting an individual in higher priority than international affairs.

A message popped up on the laptop screen to his right. _L42 Enfield /London._

Sherlock swiveled his chair and clicked on the email.

_Richard Adair was shot to death two hours ago in his home in Kensington. Bullet type 303 Mk VII SAA. Gun found 800 metres away in bushes, modified L42 Enfield. Modifications being analyzed now. Will send when complete. No fingerprints. No motive apparent as yet._

His head gave a particularly violent throb. Moran's opening move.

It was good. Very good. Adair was a middle-aged peer with no great draw to the public eye, save one. He was on the board of St. Bart's. Moran had met Adair in Rome last year when the assassin was posing as an investor in medical research at a conference. The facilitator of the conference had been dead by the end of the week, and Sherlock had only been able to nab two of Moriarty's smaller associates in the bargain. But it had been that escapade that alerted Moran to the fact that Sherlock had not, in fact, died on the pavement in front of St. Bart's.

It was a clear invitation. Sherlock marked the message unread, minimized the screen and steepled his fingers under his chin. He had to get to London.

The door swung open. Mycroft was on his mobile.

"Yes, sir. I understand completely. I've just had a bit of a - family crisis."

He motioned to Sherlock to get out of the chair. Sherlock shrugged at him and let the chair swivel back and forth. Mycroft glared at him, but spoke calmly into the phone.

"I promise I will return within five minutes. Wilkins can handle our end of the negotiations until then." He motioned more empathically. Sherlock heard the snap of his jacket sleeve with the gesture. "Yes, sir. Right away."

He closed the phone. "Sherlock Holmes. You've almost been the cause of ruining an international pact several months in the making. Now get out of that chair and go back to your room."

Sherlock snorted. "Honestly, Mycroft, don't you think that particular order is a bit out of date?"

"Not the point. I am not going to keep four countries waiting to keep tabs on you."

"We both know I can't get out of this house without you knowing within seconds. Why bother coming to order me out of here?" Sherlock leaned forward, eyeing his brother. "Unless you've got something you're keeping from me?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't be dense, Sherlock."

"Meaning yes, you are."

"Of course I am!"

It was not the answer Sherlock was expecting. Mycroft was the great dissembler. Frankness was not his style. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, fighting down the drowsiness dragging at his eyelids. His hand hovered over the mouse, tempted to show Mycroft what he had seen.

"You're obviously under the effects of your drugs," Mycroft said, sounding actually relieved. "Now get out of here before you accidentally send a missile strike to Korea, and let me get back to work."

Sherlock did some quick calculations. Dr. Scofield couldn't be more than five minutes down the road. It was worth a shot.

"I just –" he let his voice falter a bit. "I just want to be of use. You need me on this case."

Mycroft was eyeing him. "How much morphine did Dr. Scofield give you this time?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, honestly. "Does it matter?"

"It might. I gave him explicit instructions –" Mycroft's phone chirped. He paused long enough to read the message and frowned. "Sherlock, I am not going to discuss this now. Give me an hour to finish this conference, and then we'll talk. But for now, get out of here and let me get back to work."

They glared at each other for a moment. Then Sherlock shoved the chair back from the desk and stood, letting himself stumble. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but merely opened the door and walked through to the library. Sherlock squatted quickly, taking a deep breath and listening to his brother's footsteps. Mycroft would expect him to follow within 10 seconds, which was all the time he needed. When he stood back up, he could feel the disorientation setting in. Mycroft was heading back. Sherlock put his thumb in his mouth and blew out, hard. He just caught a glimpse of Mycroft's face in the doorway as he slumped to the floor and blacked out.


	10. Experimental Physics

_The image before him is as incomprehensible as it is disturbing. Mycroft hesitates, hand on his door handle, and observed for another moment before stepping out._

_Sherlock – obviously strung out, though you'd have to know the signs to be sure – standing on the wrong side of crime scene tape, talking to a DI. Even without the dark street, particularly humid summer air, and police lights still shining, the scene has all the earmarks of a hallucination. Mycroft catalogues the DI with a glance: hair prematurely turned more salt than pepper with stress – work, most likely, though there's a wedding band to consider; a two-year-old suit that he's had mended on the left leg – job injury, tussle, not gunshot – and has been clumsily or careless pressed; going by the bags under his eyes and the tightness in their corners, there's something other than work on his mind – most likely the wedding band; twitching fingers suggest a losing battle with a smoking habit. Or maybe it's just irritation because Sherlock is standing there talking so fast even Mycroft is struggling to read his lips._

_He knows Sherlock has noticed the car because he doesn't react when Mycroft opens the door. The DI does, though. _

_"Sorry, this is a crime scene, you'll have to move on."_

_Mycroft smiles, continuing to move forward. "Unfortunately, I have business here."_

_"Business?"_

_"A rendezvous, to be more precise."_

_Sherlock scoffs. Mycroft does not reward the gesture with a look. The DI is frowning at him._

_"I really think you ought to move along now."_

_"I'm here for my brother, Detective Inspector. I've spent the better part of three weeks trying to trace him this time, and I don't intend to leave without him."_

_The DI starts to ask, but casts a look between Sherlock and Mycroft, comprehension loosening the corners of his eyes. Mycroft is pleased the man seems to have command of basic reasoning skills. So many of the law enforcement community seem to have had that ability removed. He puts out his hand over the crime tape, letting his eyes trail to the body lying between the detective and Sherlock._

_Face bashed in, lack of defensive wounds, chafe marks on the wrists. Unprofessional attempt to make it look like a mugging, pockets turned out. Location, number of officers swarming the scene is suggestive. And Sherlock is here. This will have been a kidnapping victim gone wrong. Victim must be someone rather influential._

_"Mycroft Holmes. And you are?"_

_"Detective Inspector Lestrade," says the man, taking his hand warily. He's actually moved to stand between Mycroft and Sherlock, keeping the younger Holmes out of arm's reach. Bulldog stance. Sherlock doesn't normally inspire protectiveness."Funny, Sherlock never mentioned a brother."_

_Never. So this is not the first time Sherlock has wandered onto a crime scene on this man's watch. Mycroft lets that sink in._

_"We're not in touch much," he says, casting an inquiring glance at Sherlock. Given Lestrade's reaction, he takes it to mean estrangement due to the drug use. Sherlock returns his attention to the body. "I do, however, try and keep tabs on him when I can."_

_An actual laugh from Sherlock this time. "That's putting it mildly. But I will go ahead and clear your mind, Lestrade. He's my brother, and as far as I know, not a suspect."_

_ He crouches beside the body, leaning over to examine the wounds on the face and side of the head._

_"Sherlock, I told you," the DI says. _

_He drops his focus on Mycroft to grab Sherlock's shoulder. Mycroft tenses, expecting to find Lestrade on the ground in another breath. Assaulting a metropolitan police officer – the paperwork to clean that up will be such an inconvenience. To his surprise, Sherlock lets himself be moved back to a standing position, though he jerks away from Lestrade immediately._

_"If you can't pass a test right now, you don't get to examine the body, or give me advice, or tell me about how many obvious clues I'm missing. That's our deal." _

_Lestrade's voice is almost paternal. Neither of the Holmes brothers have pleasant associations with that tone. Why, then, is Sherlock standing there scowling at the man, rather than doing what Mycroft expects high Sherlock to do – either slam the man to the ground, or embark on a visceral deduction that will reduce the DI to an insecure jelly?_

_"You need me," Sherlock says coldly._

_"I'll manage."_

_"This man was clearly struck with –"_

_"No, no, stop that," Lestrade says, holding up an authoritative hand. "I'll arrest you and let Anderson take you in while I finish here, if that what it takes."_

_"You wouldn't."_

_"I really would. And probably take a few photographs."_

_Mycroft is on the wrong side of the police tape. And utterly bewildered, a position he hasn't been in for at least two decades. The pieces are fitting together, but he's not sure he likes the picture. What hold can this detective inspector have on his brother?_

_"I'm not impaired. My brain is functioning perfectly well. And you let me in. Don't forget that." There is an odd mix of triumph and pleading in Sherlock's voice._

_"It was dark. I couldn't see how strung out you were. You promised, Sherlock."_

_"Got bored."_

_Mycroft clears his throat. "Will someone kindly explain why I'm still standing in a moderately sized alley rather than on my way home with my brother?"_

_"Shut up, Mycroft." Typical Sherlock response._

_Lestrade, however, takes a more polite route. "I'm sure you know that your brother has this sort of knack for noticing things other people miss." Sherlock gives Mycroft a gloating glance at this, but Mycroft ignores it. "Well, he showed up a few weeks back and helped us out of a tough spot. He's been sort of –"_

_"Consulting," Sherlock puts in._

_" - but I told him from the start that if he's going to work with me, then he's going to be sober to do it. So, I guess the answer is: there's no reason for you to not be on your way – with your brother."_

_"Excellent," Mycroft says, still uneasy over the familiar way the two men address each other. Sherlock doesn't have friends, and he certainly doesn't like the metropolitan police. "Sherlock, come with me. I've got family business to discuss with you."_

_Lestrade raises the police tape, but Sherlock doesn't walk through. He's glaring at Mycroft through slightly-glazed eyes, the curl to his lip suggesting he's considering taking his chances with arrest. Mycroft can't quite blame him. The last rehab facility he used was patterned after a high-security prison, and Sherlock's sentence there had been long. Mycroft can't quite feel sorry about it, either. It has been over a year since the last overdose, and he's been the villain in his brother's piece longer than he can remember._

_An idea strikes. He smiles lazily at Sherlock's stubborn form, and turns back to Lestrade._

_"Detective Inspector, I wonder if I might take a turn at assisting you? As you can see, I am not impaired in the slightest."_

_Sherlock stiffens, planting his feet almost territorially. No need, as Lestrade is already shaking his head._

_"It breaks about half a dozen rules letting just one civilian in here. Two is a bit more than I can vouch for."_

_"Oh, you needn't let me across the tape. I can tell you enough from here."_

_Sherlock's reaction is immediate. He steps under the police tape with a growl that tells Mycroft he understands the ploy._

_"On second thoughts, I'll go. It'll be too much trouble to try to shake you off now. Good evening, Lestrade, send an email when you need me. I'll expect it by dawn."_

_Lestrade is staring at them both. Mycroft nods his farewell and turns, a half-step behind Sherlock, shoulders overlapping. It is a petty thing, but Mycroft can admit that he feels slightly usurped by the DI._

_"Oh, and Lestrade, I'd start with the office manager and the brother," Sherlock says._

_Lestrade makes a frustrated noise, but does not reply._

_"Brother," Mycroft says automatically, but under his breath._

_"Could just as easily have been a professional vendetta," Sherlock says, fumbling slightly with the doorhandle._

_"The watch," Mycroft counters._

_Sherlock flops himself onto the seat, taking up well more than half. Mycroft simply slides in alongside, using his knee to edge his brother onto his own side._

_"The watch was a 30-year appreciation gift from the company. It was still on his wrist. The office manager would have taken it." Sherlock follows the train of thought with a sigh of resignation. "Of course."_

_Perhaps because of brotherly obligation, Mycroft makes a rare concession. "You would have gotten it."_

_Sherlock shrugs. "I'll get it tomorrow morning when Lestrade is at his wits' end. Well, he's there now, but he's still got a bit of bureaucratic dignity left tonight."_

_He sits up a bit more as the car moves forward. "Alright then, what's this family business you want to discuss?"_

_Mycroft hesitates. Despite the drugs, Sherlock is in a better place than he has been in years. He's reluctant to disrupt it. But he has to. Perhaps this Lestrade will be anchor enough for his brother when he gets this news. Heaven knows he won't want Mycroft._

_"It's Mummy. We're going to have to put her in a home, Sherlock." _

_He signals for the driver to stop before Sherlock can manage to open the door, and lets him dash off into the night alone._


	11. Blunder

His phone buzzed imperiously in his pocket. It would be Mycroft's eighth call in the last seven minutes. Apparently his brother was laboring under the delusion that repetition was somehow effective. Perhaps this explained the current state of affairs at the U.N.

"So they let you borrow work clothes at MI6, but how did you get here?"

Molly hadn't been as surprised as Sherlock expected when he poked his head in the morgue at half past midnight, but there was a fair amount of almost-surreptitious staring going on as she trailed in his wake down the hallway. Also more than a fair amount of questions.

"Taxi," Sherlock said, taking a sharp right into a stairwell.

"Weren't you worried someone would see you?"

He paused on the landing to consider, and to let her bound up the remaining steps she was behind him. "No, actually. I've been hiding in plain sight for three years now. Why would tonight be any more or less dangerous than the others?"

"But you – and you said there's a sniper – and all this about John and me not working at the same time…" Molly's incoherence encapsulated her message well enough. It was a trait he had learned to appreciate about her.

"Yes, but he'll be on the alert for armored cars and tinted windows. Best place to hide is in the open," Sherlock said, taking the next flight two at a time.

There was a window on this landing. He angled his body out of direct line of sight and took his time perusing the office building opposite. It was an inconveniently good match for St. Bart's – a good sniper would be able to pick off a target standing in this window with ease, much less a person walking outside. Sherlock combed through the Tube map in his mind, checking routes John might use from his new address.

Another buzz from his pocket, this time the insistent, singular throb of a text message. Sherlock passed the window and headed up the next flight as he read.

_I expected you to try and make a break for it, but it appears I underestimated your alliance-forming capabilities. M_

Sherlock had to grin at that. Mycroft would have finished his teleconference by this point, which meant he was probably speeding toward London, telling all the police to be on the lookout for his runaway brother.

A second message buzzed in.

_Losing consciousness was a nice touch. M_

Molly jumped a little when he laughed, but Sherlock didn't bother explaining.

_When one is avoiding the attention of the leader of the free world, one learns to use any and all tricks at one's disposal. SH_

Before he'd even made it to the window, his phone buzzed again.

_Do I need to bother asking where you are? M_

_Do you expect it to do you any good? SH_

Sherlock marked two particularly large windows that would afford a good view of almost any location on this face of St. Bart's, and turned to Molly, who was fiddling anxiously with her ponytail.

"What entrance does John generally use?"

She blinked. "I assume the one by casualty, since that's where he's working."

"You don't know?"

"I haven't ever thought to ask him."

He'd been too harsh with the question. He could see it in the slight narrowing of her eyes and the wrinkle that had scurried across her forehead. But she responded with a quiet firmness that was foreign to him. It was possible that Mycroft had been right about things changing while he was gone. He'd noticed other changes. Wearing simple, professional clothes that didn't broadcast her apparently pathological obsession with cats. A light touch with the makeup, but in deeper colors that meant others than himself would notice she was wearing it. Molly looked… older. Unsettling. He turned back to the window.

"The casualty entrance is just there," he said, looking down to the left of the window. "And you use the entrance on the cross street – just around the corner, isn't it?"

He didn't need her confirmation. But he'd spotted what he'd been looking for – the set of windows perfectly situated to target people using either entrance. Taking into account the fact that Moran tended to work from a height where possible, Sherlock eliminated the bottom three floors, which left three more available. It appeared the fifth floor window had been boarded up – either due to some innocent vandalism, or a lack of tenants. Either way, it was a point of interest.

His phone buzzed.

_My cameras caught you in the morgue half an hour ago. Since then you and Molly have been conspicuously absent from the security footage. M_

His thumbs worked at top speed, even as he eyed the main entrance to the office building. Only security lights on. Unlikely to have a night guard. Standard security system. Easily circumvented.

_It's not as if the cameras are particularly well-hidden. I'm not blind. Rather enjoy depriving you of your all-seeing eye, though. SH_

"I really ought to get back," Molly said, edging toward the stairs. "I've got two more post-mortems to finish on this shift, and I'm only scheduled till 3."

_I hardly need CCTV to be considered all-seeing, brother. M_

Molly stopped two stairs down. Sherlock looked up to see her biting her lip, apparently deciding whether or not to speak. "You coming?"

"Oh." She expected him to come. Probably something to do with him telling her about a sniper who might have her in his crosshairs. He glanced down at his phone, thumbs twitching slightly. "Uh, no, I'm just going to do some more checking. I'll pop back in later."

Her brow wrinkled again. "You promise?"

That wasn't fear in her voice. Sherlock looked more closely. Concern. An odd form of relief that gave her eyes a slightly pinched look. She spoke before he could assign a better word to it.

"It's just – you've been like a ghost for three years, Sherlock. I knew you were here, but no one else did. Some days I thought maybe… Maybe I was just imagining things. Playing tricks on myself, even though I helped you plan it all and sneaked you out of the morgue myself. And this. Tonight. Skulking in corridors, peering out windows. It's like it was. And I think…" she stopped herself, turning suddenly, brilliantly pink in a way that was much more familiar than her demeanor had been all night. "Just promise you're really back to stay. And promise you'll tell John."

His phone buzzed.

_Tell me no one but Ms. Hooper has seen you? I won't protect you from the media feeding frenzy if others have. M_

He looked up at Molly again. "I'll come by before your shift is through."

She gave a little nod and headed down the stairs, apparently content with this answer. Sherlock waited until she'd gone two landings down before springing into action. He'd have to get into the building, search it for evidence that Moran had set up shop, maybe put a trap of his own in place, depending on what he had available to him. He exited the stairwell and took the elevator to the ground floor, staring at Mycroft's message and thinking of Molly. Most people, he knew, would be comforted by Molly's little speech, narcissistically pleased that they were considered important enough to cause this kind of distress. But he found himself on much surer ground with Mycroft's lazy frustration. Mycroft, he understood. Mycroft was irritatingly implacable. He hadn't changed since leaving uni, probably since entering upper form. Sherlock didn't like to admit to himself that he appreciated this quality in his brother, but he also preferred not to lie to himself. Mycroft, it seemed, might have been right about others not sharing that static quality. Molly had changed. And John…?

Sherlock shook himself and headed for the exit. It was best to deal with one problem at a time.

_How long do I have before Nanny arrives to whisk me back to the nursery? SH_

_I'll leave you to your deductions. M_

There was no burst of gunfire when he exited St. Bart's, a fact that moderately surprised him. Then again, he'd taken care to choose clothing that gave him an unfamiliar silhouette, and his current slouched posture and bandaged arm made him even less recognizable. He headed off in the opposite direction, down the cross street, then cut west two blocks before turning back toward the office building.

The security system was generic, a simple 4-digit code assigned to various departments. He had conducted an unofficial study once and come up with three codes that would unlock half of London. He punched in 2580 and was rewarded by the click of the back door unlocking.

"Idiots," he muttered. Mycroft would have a coronary if he knew.

The stairwells in the back of the building had no windows, so he took them up to the fourth floor. The hallways here were narrow, stuffed with offices of middle-management. He tried several offices along the front of the building, finding four that were unlocked, and one that required a quick jimmy. No signs of them being used for anything more sinister than bureaucracy.

He took the next flight more slowly, adrenaline tingling in his fingertips. This was the floor with the boarded window. He jimmied his way into the first office. Nothing. He peered out the window in time to see a black car pull up to St. Bart's. Mycroft stepped out, eyes on his mobile. Sherlock smirked.

There was the crack of a rifle. And Mycroft fell to the ground.


	12. Business Administration

_There are days when the money Mycroft pays to maintain an office in the Diogenes Club building seems infinitely justified. The silence alone is worth a king's ransom. He chose to keep his role in the treasury department of his own free will, but there are days when the idiocy of his coworkers sends him packing to the high-ceilinged, well-lit, adequately furnished room at the Club, where no one can disturb him without risking expulsion. Today he has a pact involving five major world players that needs review and revision, and no patience for complaints about the shoddy coffeemaker and the new hire's constant tardiness._

_So when the sound of the door opening distracts him from the seventh page of the proposed trade agreement, Mycroft is quite ready to suggest exile, until he sees Sherlock._

_"Good afternoon," Mycroft says, placing the page precisely on top of the others he's already read, making sure the corners line up precisely. He laces his fingers and leans forward. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"_

_Sherlock walks over to the window, shedding his coat and tossing it casually across the back of a chair. Mycroft eyes the offending garment, but does not speak._

_"Does the ambassador from Moldova really warrant three new guards at the door?"_

_"Don't tell me he brought men in uniform." It's enough to propel Mycroft out of his chair and toward his brother._

_"No, but those haircuts," Sherlock stabs his finger at the three dark-suited men loitering at discreet distances on the block, "coupled with the rather poorly concealed weapons, are rather a give-away, don't you think?"_

_Mycroft scans the street. "Actually, only two of those are from Moldova."_

_Sherlock snaps his attention back to the men. "The one closest to the door is from Latvia, then?"_

_Mycroft nods._

_Sherlock continues his scan of the street. Mycroft gives him a swift once-over. They see each other even less since he and John Watson became an internet sensation. John has been good for Sherlock. The slightest bit of padding around his collarbone and chin suggest he is eating on what could be considered a normal schedule. None of the usual tells that point to a relapse into drugs. Haven't had one of those in the last two years. John, the brother of an addict, keeps Sherlock far away from such temptations. Sherlock is – steadier. Not quite the loose cannon he was. Despite the debacle with The Woman earlier in the year, despite the incident at Baskerville just last weekend, Sherlock has been gainfully, almost safely, employed without interference from Mycroft for months. In fact, aside from the quirk of his right eyebrow that means he is frustrated, Sherlock looks better than he ever has. Well, frustration is to be expected. He's come to see Mycroft, after all._

_Sherlock catches him from the corner of his eye and the side of his mouth tips up. He nods toward the street. "You pick, or shall I?"_

_"I'll allow you," Mycroft says, forcing down a grin._

_"That one," Sherlock says, nodded at a young lady who has just turned the corner._

_"Journalist," Mycroft says at once._

_"Freelancer."_

_"Most likely trying to break out of print work into broadcast, look at those shoes."_

_"Fired from her last job."_

_"About to be," Mycroft corrects. "Look at her bag."_

_Sherlock groans. "The recorder."_

_"Precisely."_

_They watch the blonde totter past in silence. Now there are lines across Sherlock's forehead._

_ "You've got to do something about him."_

_Mycroft can't quite control the start the words give him. He knits his brows and steps away from the window, heading for the drink trolley even though it's not yet 3 o'clock._

_"You'll have to be more specific."_

_Sherlock turns his head away from the window. "You know who I mean, Mycroft. Don't play games with me."_

_Lestrade assured Mycroft that no harm had come to Sherlock out at Baskerville, but looking at his brother, Mycroft disagrees. There's a manic edge to his voice, a sudden tension in his hands._

_"I wasn't attempting to," he says calmly. He pours himself a scotch and cocks an eyebrow at the trolley, silently asking Sherlock._

_Sherlock's mouth tightens in refusal. For all his many substance abuses, Sherlock has never had much use for alcohol except when it serves his purposes in a case. Mycroft nods, takes his glass and seats himself at his desk again._

_"Jim Moriarty," he says carefully._

_Sherlock stiffens instantly._

_"I know you've had your run-ins with him, Sherlock…" Mycroft lets the placating tone hang in the air for a beat. "But really –"_

_"He's an international threat and you know it better than I do," Sherlock snaps. He begins to pace, hands shoved into his pockets. "The Coventry plan – Bond Air – that was just the tip of the iceberg, wasn't it? He's more dangerous than most people on the Forbes Most Wanted lists, isn't he?"_

_Mycroft steeples his fingers and leans forward. "Would it worry you so much if he is? You've never been particularly interested in international affairs before."_

_"You've got to do something about him."_

_"I rather got the impression you've enjoyed having a real arch-enemy to play with. One who doesn't follow the Marquis of Queensbury rules."_

_Sherlock's fist lands squarely in front of Mycroft on the desk. "Stop it!"_

_Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Something has definitely happened. The last time Moriarty was mentioned between them, Sherlock was elated in his success. Cocky, one might call it. Hardly the behavior that would prompt Sherlock to show up in his office in the middle of the day and demand help. _

_"Why me?" he shoots back at his brother._

_"What?" Sherlock frowns and straightens up, adjusting his jacket._

_Mycroft waves a hand at the chair. Sherlock ignores it._

_"Why are you so keen that I be the one to do something? Surely you have plenty of avenues available to you to take action."_

_It's a calculated risk. If Sherlock hasn't explored these options, he might have just given his brother carte blanche to do so. But this Sherlock, this calmer, steadier Sherlock, might have come to him in spite of having these options, rather than because he's exhausted them._

_"You can do it quickly."_

_The words are spoken coldly. Mycroft meets his brother's eyes to be sure he understands fully._

_"I'm afraid you exaggerate my power if you think it includes a license to kill, Sherlock."_

_"Don't pretend. You could have him taken out in five minutes, from this very office if you wanted. I'm asking you to do it."_

_"Why?"_

_Sherlock's fingers beat a tarantella against his leg. As if he feels Mycroft's eyes on them, he straightens them out deliberately and seats himself in the chair. His eyes, when he meets Mycroft's, are ancient. They are, Mycroft realizes, rather what his own look like these days._

_"He has to be stopped."_

_Mycroft sighs. "Agreed."_

_Sherlock stares at him. "So you'll take care of it, then?"_

_The hope in his voice is unsettling. "These things have to be done carefully."_

_"Don't give me that –"_

_"Killing James Moriarty will be worse than useless unless we can take down his network, too," Mycroft says firmly, talking over Sherlock's interruption. "He has cells around the world, all of them equipped to wreak havoc with or without him in charge. Killing him would be like pulling the pin of a hand grenade."_

_Sherlock runs a hand over his face. "He's gotten too close, Mycroft. Don't you see? He worked in St. Bart's. He dated Molly Hooper. He kidnapped John. And then he sent the Woman to toy with me. And at Baskerville –"_

_"What about Baskerville?" Mycroft asks as Sherlock cuts himself off._

_Sherlock shakes his head. "He's too close. I can't guarantee the safety of the people –" For the second time in as many minutes, he stops himself. _

_Mycroft doesn't need him to finish the sentence. Sherlock has found his family, a much more welcoming, understanding family than the one he – or Mycroft - knew as a boy. For once, Sherlock is falling prey to sentiment, and Mycroft can't bring himself to tease or scold him over it. In an odd way, it's comforting that despite all this, he still turns to Mycroft when things look impossible._

_"I think I have a solution," he says quietly, lowering his eyes to the papers on his desk. He pushes the trade agreement aside. "It's not quick, but it's effective."_

_"You can get rid of him?"_

_Mycroft looks up and meets Sherlock's eyes as honestly as he can. It's a first for him, being forthright with his brother._

_"I believe so."_


	13. Discovered Check

**Author's note:** It was not my intention to leave you hanging for so long, my dear readers. I only hope this chapter makes up for it!

* * *

It took Sherlock about 2.5 seconds to move. Long enough for his brain to stutter to comprehension of what had just happened. Something akin to fear clawed at his throat. But there was no time for fear. Sherlock pushed it aside and cleared the space to the office door in one stride.

The shot had come from this building. Somewhere close. Sherlock paused at the door, peering carefully into the hallway, listening. No sound save the buzz of the hallway light. He stepped out and paused, forcing his mind to continue to process information. Either Moran was in no hurry to clear out, or he was on another floor. Probability was with going up a floor – two at the most. Any higher would be out of ideal targeting range for that corner. The stairwell would make him a sitting duck if Moran met him there. The elevators were out of the question, likely locked down for the night, anyway.

He could wait, listen for a clue his prey was on the move. Impatience sizzled along his nerves at the thought. He glanced back into the office with its bank of windows. A swarm of medical professionals were congregating by the car, while Mycroft's driver hunched to the side, mobile pressed to his ear. This time the sizzle climbed up his neck and frayed across his face, tightening his features. He wasn't going to stand around waiting for a pronouncement. He would take the stairs.

There was a supply closet next to the stairs. Sherlock jimmied the lock and surveyed the contents. Not much in the way of weapons, but he took a bottle of cleaning fluid and several cloths. With the ill-fitting clothes he'd taken from MI6, he'd gain at least a few milliseconds of surprise. Long enough to disarm the man, perhaps.

Mycroft would call it fool's odds. He had always preferred to think of it as the opportunity of genius.

The stairwell was empty when he entered. He took the stairs two at a time, hugging the wall as he came to the corner. Still no noise from above or below. The rest of the flight went even faster, but the hallway when he entered was deserted. He'd half-stepped back into the stairwell to try the next floor when an office three doors down the hall opened.

Sebastian Moran was a compactly built man, narrow-shouldered and agile. He had the pockmarked, chiseled look of an army veteran, with creases embedded in his forehead and the corners of his eyes. Sherlock swept him with a glance. Average work-a-day clothing. No concealed weapons, but a rifle dangled negligently from his left hand. Empty, given the grip and Moran's reputation. The faint rumpling of his shirtsleeves suggested he'd been in one position for a while, had probably been waiting at that window almost since arriving in London. The man's posture was relaxed, almost smug. Sherlock couldn't blame him. Moran couldn't have planned to take down Mycroft, but it was a hit that half the criminal world would thank him for, not to mention serve his own needs.

There was a bit of carrion comfort in realizing how objective he was being. Short-lived, at any rate, as Moran's eyes strayed to the half-open door he'd just stepped through. Sherlock didn't bother to shift out of his line of sight.

Moran's left hand came up, but the gun, as Sherlock expected was empty. He dove into the doorway and grabbed Sherlock's shirt, pulling him into the hallway. Sherlock let Moran create the momentum, then plowed forward into him. His uninjured shoulder met Moran's solar plexus as they landed on the floor.

He released a stream of window cleaner at Moran's eyes. His enemy instinctively turned aside, still coughing convulsively. A surprisingly strong lashing blow nearly knocked the bottle from his hand. Sherlock fought to keep it in his grasp, wrestling Moran for control of both the bottle and rifle. Moran let the gun relax to his side as he fought the spray still coating his face and shoulders. Sherlock, seizing the opportunity, slackened his grip on the bottle.

Moran coughed and heaved Sherlock off him. Sherlock grabbed the rifle and kicked it away. Moran's foot collided with his shin, sending Sherlock to the floor. He reared up and drove his fist toward Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock shifted, but the blow landed with enough force to make him see stars. He caught the wrist. Moran twisted away – leaving his torso open to the knee Sherlock shoved into it. The hitman collapsed to the side, gasping, and landed on Sherlock's wounded shoulder.

Sherlock roared in pain. Moran took the hint and sent a rabbit punch at the wound. Sherlock arched his back, throwing a wild punch that barely forced Moran's head back. He rolled away and came up to a grappling position, arm throbbing, eyes still bedazzled.

"Both the invincible Holmes in one night? This is too easy," Moran said, grinning.

"You haven't finished the job yet." It was, perhaps, a testament to his distraction that Sherlock only just noticed his phone buzzing in his pocket. Of course, someone would be calling him about Mycroft. But the realization was quickly followed by others. Mycroft. He'd been shot.

"Well, come on, then," Sherlock said, letting his voice go ragged.

Moran dove toward him. Sherlock avoided the charge, flipping around behind Moran. His forearm found Moran's windpipe. Moran's fingers scrabbled at his arm, but Sherlock held on. Sirens cut through the air. Sherlock smirked.

"Did you honestly think you could kill a man like Mycroft Holmes and not draw down the entire global law enforcement community?"

Moran threw himself unexpectedly backwards. Sherlock fell backwards, his head snapping back to collide with the wall. Stars exploded in his head again, and his grip loosened. Moran twisted out. Sherlock lumbered into a crouched position, but Moran threw a hook that drove his head back against the wall with a crunch even more sickening. The hallway swam before his eyes. Moran grabbed his rifle and dashed down the stairs. Sherlock made a heavy-limbed attempt to go after him, but made it only a half-step before the slam of a door confirmed that Moran was already out of the stairwell.

Sherlock forced himself to breathe normally, willing the black spots in his vision to fade. He fished in his pocket for his phone, cursing as his fingers fumbled it to the floor. Four missed calls – two from a number he recognized as Mycroft's office, one from an unknown number (most likely St. Bart's), and one from Molly. Molly had also sent a text.

_Mycroft's been sent directly to the operating theatre. The bullet hit his left lung. Is lodged in the chest cavity. Surgeon is confident it can be removed._

Moran had missed.

Somehow, Sherlock had missed that possibility. Or perhaps hadn't let himself think it. Too much the sort of thing Molly would say to be comforting – inane, useless, unlikely. Though, now he thought about it. Mycroft had been in motion, could easily have turned at the last moment, looked up or looked down, done something that caused Moran's bullet to just miss his heart.

The thought propelled him to his feet. It was likely that an operation of that sort would take hours. It would be even longer before Mycroft awoke. He had time to go after Moran. He could at least partially make up for the debacle he'd walked into. Caused, if he'd be honest.

He'd made it only two flights down when a police officer burst into the stairwell and ordered him to freeze.

"I'm not the man you're looking for," Sherlock said calmly, continuing his rapid descent.

"I said to freeze," said the man, gun not wavering.

Sherlock paused long enough to glare at him. "Sebastian Moran was in this building not 30 seconds ago. He's an internationally known assassin and he just shot Mycroft Holmes. If you hurry, you'll be able to catch him. I'd love to stay and confirm with you who I am and how I know that, but I have my own agenda for the night."

The officer raised the gun. Sherlock smirked. "If you fire that gun in this stairwell, it will ricochet. You might hit me, you might hit yourself –" the door behind the officer opened, and two more Metropolitan police dashed in. "You might hit one of them. Do you want to take that chance?"

The man was a seasoned veteran of the streets, Sherlock could see, but seemed incapable of following logical reasoning. One of the men behind him had lowered his gun and was staring.

"It can't be. No way! It can't be!"

Sherlock took the next two stairs. "Obviously it can."

"What is it, Gregson?" asked the man in front.

"That's – that's Sherlock Holmes, you bloomin' idiot. Sherlock Holmes, the detective Lestrade was always calling in. The one who jumped off St. Bart's a couple of years back."

"He's dead, though," said the first man.

"Not just yet," Sherlock said, though his shoulder gave a particularly vicious throb. "Now I'll leave Gregson here to explain. Ask DI Lestrade if you want confirmation. I'll be back at St. Bart's by 4 a.m. Ta!"

And with that, he brushed past them and out the door.


	14. International Diplomacy

_Sophia Hennessy is not as desirable as she believes herself to be. Then again, in the realm of international diplomacy, she is more pivotal than she realizes. Mycroft swallows a sigh and forces himself not to count the furrows etched into her forehead, or the grey roots showing under her obviously tinted mahogany coif._

_"More wine?" he asks, leaning closer than necessary to reach for her glass._

_Sophia giggles like a woman several decades younger. She's almost too eager, Mycroft muses, forcing his instinctive recoil into a slight caress of her hair. Subtle. She'll have to decide if he even meant to do it. Might make the evening marginally more interesting. There's almost no salvaging it at this point. He might actually be forced to copulate._

_Her support will mean the passage of the new transport legislation, which will open the door to talks with Brazil, which will be just the segue he needs to negotiate with North Korea. Mycroft, like his brother, has little interest in the physical intrigues that seem to make the world go round. However, unlike Sherlock, he recognizes and utilizes them regularly. He rarely has to bed his prey. Restrained seduction has longer-reaching power._

_He hands her the glass and deliberately doesn't pull back. He pitches his voice lower, finding the slight gravel that he knows will be alluring._

_ "I suppose you're wondering why I've brought you back here."_

_Apparently, the clichéd line is fresh material to her, because she flushes scarlet._

_"Well, I – that is… you're a mysterious man, Mycroft Holmes. One rather stops –"_

_His phone buzzes in his pocket._

_His instinctive grab for it stops Sophia mid-sentence. He doesn't mind overmuch. He had his calls forwarded to Anthea tonight, save for two numbers. Either one of them demands immediate attention._

_He lets his mouth frame apologies without paying them any mind as he opens the text message. Something about a troubled brother in rehabilitation. Close enough to the truth. The message is short. Four words._

I'll do it. Tonight.

_Sherlock. Mycroft finds words he hasn't used since his days at uni pushing against his lips. He is aware that Sophia is babbling beside him, but the portion of his brain recording the words isn't bothering to translate their meaning. Something has happened. Something he should know about. He should be in his office, rather than wining and dining an MP._

_"Forgive me, Sophia, but this is quite urgent. The staff thinks I'm the only person he'll listen to," he says, aware that he can't afford to completely sever this tie just yet. At the moment, the situation in North Korea carries about as much weight with him as Sophia's dog grooming woes, but it would be foolish to throw away his efforts._

_"No, no, you should go," she says resignedly. Mycroft forces his features to reciprocate the regret. "I'll take a cab home. Do call when the crisis is past."_

_"You can depend on it."_

_Mycroft follows her out of the building and steps into the waiting car. Anthea is already seated across from him._

_"What's happened?"_

_"Scotland Yard came to arrest Sherlock," Anthea begins._

_"Yes, yes, we knew that. It was bound to happen sometime today or tomorrow," Mycroft interrupts, motioning her onward with a twitch of his hand._

_"But it appears John Watson got himself arrested, too. He and Sherlock are now on the run from the Metropolitan Police."_

_A strangled syllable that might have been a curse makes it past Mycroft's lips. It wasn't supposed to work out this way. Sherlock was supposed to be taken in for questioning. Moriarty was supposed to get his precious photo, be convinced that his plan was still on track. Convinced they still believed in his bogus computer code. They were supposed to have days before Moriarty got to his denouement, days in which he could convince Sherlock to play along, and set up the security measures he'd been planning since Moriarty was released from his cell. Days, not hours._

_He dials and presses the phone to his ear, giving another twitch of his hand to Anthea._

_"Jim Moriarty was spotted at the Tesco he and Kitty Riley frequent. Bentley also reported seeing Sherlock and John turning down that road. He's managed to keep the chatter off the Yard frequencies."_

_Mycroft nods, listening to the digitized ring in his ear, hurriedly adjusting his plans. He'll need to call in the extra detail, arrange some sort of abduction for John, get Sherlock the wires he'll need to wear to catch Moriarty's confessions. _

_"Go to the Diogenes Club."_

_Sherlock hasn't bothered with social niceties since he was a toddler, but Mycroft is unprepared for the bite of his brother's first words._

_"What happened? I thought we agreed you'd go to the station once they got a warrant and let one of my men take it from there." A paper trail. Mycroft had insisted on it. Sherlock agreed it would help keep John from suspecting their trickery._

_"John," Sherlock says simply. "He'd be a sitting duck for Moriarty if he got sent to the station. I had to get him out of there."_

_"So you took him to Kitty Riley's? Where he'd be sure to get even angrier and even more likely to do something impetuous that would ruin the plan?" Mycroft counters._

_"The plan is isn't going to work. Moriarty – Brook – he was there… we saw him. Talked to him. I think he's ready for the conclusion."_

_"But I need time. We need to prep the area, and you haven't been over our plan for your survival and –"_

_"I said I'd do it. But on my terms. In my way. I'll get Molly to help me. St. Bart's is just as good a location as any. Moriarty will approve, I'm sure."_

No, it's not about Moriarty approving, _Mycroft wants to snarl. There has been a plan in place for months. Sherlock has steadfastly refused to be drawn in, to play the game Mycroft has been so long in crafting. He's helped when it suited him, kept the dance going between himself and Moriarty. But he's refused to go along with the steps Mycroft has been playing with Moriarty, preferring to deal with the criminal on his own terms. Mycroft has been waiting for him to change his mind, but not like this._

_"John is on his way to see you," Sherlock says, his voice quieter. "You'll have to throw him off track. Don't let him suspect this is planned."_

_Mycroft bites back another oath. His brother is being pig-headed on purpose, he's sure of it. "We're not ready, Sherlock. If this is going to be the end of him, there are steps we have to –"_

_"There's no time for all that," Sherlock interrupts. "He's ready to end things now. I won't disappoint him."_

_"I could stop you."_

_Sherlock laughs, actual amusement coloring the sound. "And then all your hard work would be for nothing. You won't stop me, Mycroft. You're too lazy."_

_He's being flippant about it, as if something like a faked suicide and a very real assassination could be pulled off by sheer dumb luck. The worst part is, knowing Sherlock, he can probably do it. Mycroft's fist convulsively clenches, earning him a worried look from Anthea._

_"I'll have eyes and ears around," he says finally, heaving a sigh. "What will you need?"_

_"I'll need someone to get John away when Moriarty arrives," Sherlock says at once._

_"Done."_

_"You'll need to be ready to move fast on the death certificates. Within the hour of it happening, or the press will catch wind that something's fishy."_

_"Already arranged."_

_Sherlock sighs. "I'll find a way to record him. It won't be as fancy as you were expecting, but we'll make do."_

_"Very well."_

_He's doing a good job of not directing the car to St. Bart's and kidnapping Sherlock from the labs to keep him from doing this. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to be safe._

_But Sherlock is right. He has to head off John, who would undoubtedly cause trouble if allowed to see the end game. John's belief that Sherlock had perished was the factor Mycroft was counting on to convince the rest of the world, Moriarty's network, especially, that Sherlock was no longer a threat. John was a wild card that could send Sherlock's tentative plan crashing around their ears._

_"I'll be safe," Sherlock says._

_He's trying to be reassuring. The words sit awkwardly in the air between them. Mycroft doesn't know how to respond._

_"Promise?" he says, rather childishly. _

_"Do you really want me to promise I'll be safe while faking my own death and causing the possible death or capture of a criminal mastermind?" Sherlock's voice is firmly back in the safe ground of mocking. "Tut, tut, Mycroft. Sentiment really isn't your style. Very well, Nanny, I'll try to be good. I'll see you tonight, most likely. I'll need to stay in your flat till after the funeral."_

_"Right."_

_They sit in silence another four seconds, before Sherlock says, "I'm at St. Bart's."_

_The click tells him the call has ended, but Mycroft does not immediately lower the phone. Anthea is staring at him._

_"Contact Bentley, Merskill, and Carpler. They are assigned to St. Bart's as of right now," he says._

_There will be more he can do. Sherlock will send word. He has John to distract. And one other phonecall to make. One more deception to keep going._

_He dials and presses the phone to his ear again, controlling the shiver of revulsion at the voice on the other end._

_"Mycroft Holmes. The Ice Man himself. Did you hear what baby brother went and did tonight?"_

_Mycroft snorts derisively, infusing the sound with just the right note of hatred. Jim will misinterpret it to be directed at Sherlock._

_It was easy, far too easy, to convince Jim Moriarty that he was tired of cleaning up his brother's messes, tired of Sherlock getting all the adulation, tired of following the rules. Mycroft had started sowing the seeds during the sessions he talked about Sherlock in exchange for information on Moriarty's network. They have matured exactly as he hoped. The criminal now actually believes he is willing, even eager, to see Sherlock taken out of the picture. This perceived camaraderie has yielded more fruit than Moriarty seems to realize._

_"He's always been the dramatic one."_

_"He'll appreciate what I've got planned for him, then."_

_Mycroft doesn't trust himself to answer. Jim notices._

_"Not getting squeamish now, are we?"_

_"No, just imagining his face when he realizes." Mycroft accepts Jim's nickname for him unquestioningly, and it is moments like this that confirm it for him._

_Moriarty laughs, a wild sound that has an unraveled quality to it._

_"I can get you a front row seat, if you like."_

_Mycroft considers. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere near the confrontation. He was supposed to be safe in his office, observing where he could distance himself from the events, keep calling the shots. But it's Sherlock…_

_"Tell me where I need to be."_


	15. Endgame

**Author's Note: **This is the next to last chapter, everyone! I am considering writing a companion piece that delves more into my Reichenbach theory and how the Moran storyline plays out. But this story is first and foremost about the brothers, and I wanted to remain true to that. Thanks for your patience with me! Almost to the end now.

* * *

"So you didn't find him?" Molly asked.

Sherlock gave her a sidelong glance but didn't remove his attention from his phone. She was rebandaging his shoulder, and speaking would only prolong the process. Besides, he was expecting texts.

"Well, I'm sure the police will turn something up soon."

"I've got my people on it," Sherlock snapped, staring at the screen still more intently.

After over an hour of fruitless searching, Sherlock had been forced to admit he wasn't going to find Moran alone. The captain of his homeless network had been surprised to see him, not least because it was after 3 a.m., and he was supposedly dead. After getting past those two hurdles, helped along with the money he'd taken from Mycroft's Westminster flat, he'd given her a picture of Moran and instructed her to spread the word. It was about that time he'd gotten the text from Molly.

_Bringing him into recovery now._

As much as he trusted his homeless network, sitting by bedsides had never been his style, and sitting by Mycroft's rather than searching for his shooter was about as inviting as the time Molly had asked him to help her in the children's ward on Halloween. Still, he wanted to stop in. Check Mycroft's chart. And get Molly to take care of the mess he'd made with his fight.

"He's still out there," Molly said as if confirming the information yet again. She taped off the gauze and stepped back.

"Yes." Sherlock tested his range of motion. Good enough, considering. His eyes remained glued to the screen. No messages.

Molly shifted her weight and bit her lip. Sherlock glanced up, but she busied herself putting the first aid kit away. He began to reach for his shirt, but stopped.

"I'll be needing some fresh clothes. Scrubs would be best. If I'm going to be here tonight, then I need to look as little like the man Moran saw tonight as possible."

Molly nodded, again without looking at him, and headed toward the door of the morgue. "I'll check around."

He cocked his head slightly. "Something bothering you?"

She turned on her heel, face set. "Are you going to tell John?"

"I – " Sherlock had to let the sound hang in the air for a moment. "Soon, yes. When this is over."

"Why not now?"

Sherlock blinked at the challenge. "Because –"

"It's just –" Molly bit her lip. "The way I see it, John could help. You said this Moran is ex-Army, right? Maybe John knows something about him. And he's a good man to have around in a crisis."

An image of a completely calm, collected John standing outside police tape at Roland Kerr College the second day they knew each other flashed through Sherlock's mind. "I know."

"And he's the best friend you've ever had, Sherlock. So –" She took a breath, reverting to the Molly he remembered for a breath, before the new, steady look returned. "So, I just think you telling everyone except him is wrong."

He blinked. "I had my –"

"I'm sure you had your reasons." Molly shrugged. "I'm sure you and Mycroft had some grand plan cooked up that was going to save the world, and I'm sure it's gone splendidly up until now. But this – tonight, Mycroft getting shot – it can't have been part of that plan. And John deserves to know. He was the first one out of casualty when Mycroft went down, you know. "

Sherlock blinked. He wasn't sure why this was supposed to affect him, or why there was a slight twinge of – was that guilt? Mycroft had been the one with the plan, it was true. Mycroft had been the one who had insisted his involvement would only cause trouble. Did this prove him right? He shoved the idea aside, frowning slightly. This new Molly really was going to take some getting used to. She nodded, almost as if she understood what he had been thinking, and pushed the door open.

"I'm sorry about what happened to Mycroft," she said softly. "I'll see about those scrubs."

When he arrived at Mycroft's room, the first thing he noticed was the lack of security. One agent was stationed at the door to the hallway, and the man had barely more than sleepily glanced at Sherlock's white coat, surgical cap, and scrubs before letting him pass. Mycroft would have his career on a platter when he knew about it. As it was, he would have to speak to someone himself. Moran wouldn't have a chance to finish the job.

At least someone had been smart enough to put him in a room with a tiny window that didn't directly face the bed. He was in little danger of Moran getting another shot in from outside the hospital. Sherlock eyed the rest of the room. Headache-inducing flourscent lighting, with one bulb going blinky. Walls painted a sterile pale green. A non-descript piece of art in cool blues and greens that hung beside the bed. Comfortable chair near the head of the bed, and a harder, plain one to the side. A small, old television with a remote from the dark ages that sat on the arm of the cushioned chair. The chart at the foot of the bed. Relatively few machines, considering he'd just had surgery for a bullet to the chest. A heart monitor, a ventilator, an IV pole with two bags hanging from it, and a machine to his left connected to a tube coming from ...

He was being a coward. Sherlock stepped farther into the room, and forced a detached, appraising eye on his brother.

He lay utterly… correctly. Limbs straight, head centered on the pillow. Sheet and blanket pulled up precisely, no wrinkles. Sherlock wondered if his brother had some sort of written directive for any medical professional required to care for him that included the proper way to be placed in a bed. Even the rather complex breathing tube was situated so the apparatus lay as neatly as possible against his face. The only thing that marred the perfection of the lines was tube crawling out from under the sheet pulled up to his chest, the one that connected the incision in his chest to the machine by his side. He knew it was to drain fluid from the chest cavity, but it looked invasive, somehow. His skin, which was never anything but sun-starved, was chalky. He looked weak.

He had never seen Mycroft look weak.

Sherlock snatched the chart from the end of the bed and began skimming the top page. Surgery had been accomplished with no major incidents. The bullet had torn through the left lung and was embedded just behind it. It had missed the heart by less than five millimeters. Vital signs throughout recovery room were good. Mycroft had woken up almost precisely on schedule, and had been transferred to a private room, where he'd fallen back asleep with the help of the first round of painkillers.

"He's going to be okay, then?"

Sherlock froze at the voice. It was John.

He shifted his weight so his body was angled even further from the doctor in the doorway, curling slight into himself so his silhouette was shorter and less angular, and made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat.

"He's an old friend of mine –well, brother of a friend. I helped bring him in, thought I'd stop by now I'm off duty to see how he came through."

John's voice was husky – exhaustion, most likely. He'd worked the graveyard shift. Sherlock caught the casual way he framed the words, reading the genuine concern he was masking in the presence of a stranger.

He nodded, making another noise in the back of his throat. He hadn't had time to prepare the best way to inform John of his return. He'd hoped to enlist Molly's help to ease John into the idea, give him time to come to terms with the fact. He knew his friend well enough to know that a sudden discovery would not go over well.

John moved behind him, stepping closer. Sherlock could feel the shift, as if the resemblance had finally struck and he was trying to quell his own reaction to it. The sudden tension in the air was nearly tangible.

"Mycroft Holmes had no business being outside of St. Bart's tonight," John said slowly, still moving forward. "He's a man who never deviates from his patterns – he goes to the office, he goes to his club, and he goes to his flat. He doesn't just show up at hospitals after midnight. I know there are no patients here he'd be interested in."

Sherlock let his shoulders uncurl. He heard John's slight intake of breath.

"What did you say your name was?" John asked, his voice somehow strangled.

Sherlock had only a heartbeat before John's fingers closed over his right shoulder, turning him halfway around. He winced at the pulling on his wound, but didn't shy away. John let his hand drop, going nearly as white as Mycroft. His jaw worked, but no sound came out.

"Now, John, let me –"

John cut him off with a string of profanity. It was delivered in a near-whisper, as if the words poured from his lips without him being fully aware of them, while his eyes roamed back and forth across his face, confusion clouding them more than the fatigue so clearly written across his features. Sherlock stared, too. His friend had grayed in the interim, looking fully ten years older than he had last time Sherlock had seen him in person. More lines had carved themselves into his forehead. He seemed to have recently lost weight, going by the fit of the rumpled scrubs. A new tragedy? Sickness? Something neither Molly nor Mycroft had informed him of? Sherlock frowned slightly, probing for more. His hair was grown past the military cut he favored, his skin bore the fading signs of a tan – a holiday several months back, then.

John's left fist clenched, and Sherlock saw a faint tan line for a ring. A ring?

"Sherlock," John said, his voice still a whisper, but intense enough for a shout. "Sherlock Holmes, you explain this right now. Explain this bloody sodding hell of a situation. This instant."

"I didn't kill myself."

Sherlock considered the punch a fair response to his statement. John didn't hold back. His fist connected squarely on Sherlock's left cheekbone, driving him back several steps. Sherlock righted himself and waited, prepared to restrain his friend if it came to that. John shook his hand experimentally, but didn't follow up. Instead he stepped backward, his face suddenly closed.

"You bastard."

"John," Sherlock said, raising his hands in a position of surrender. "I understand you're upset –"

"Upset?" John cast a glance at the doorway, and somehow managed to keep his voice below a shout. "Bloody effing upset? Do you understand what you did? Do you understand that whatever game you pulled just now bloody well destroyed the people closest to you?" He floundered out several more syllables, none of them coherent, and backed up a step. "How could you? Three years, Sherlock. Three years! We buried you. _I _buried you." His finger stabbed the air accusingly. "And you've just been doing what? Hiding away somewhere, waiting until it was convenient to come out again? Or were you ever planning on coming back? Just got sick of this life and fancied another? Did Big Brother getting shot drag you out of hiding?"

There was a movement from the bed. Both men snapped their attention to Mycroft, who seemed to be attempting to speak. He nearly gagged on the breathing tube. John transitioned into an attending doctor so fast that Sherlock was actually startled.

"Easy there, Mycroft. Don't try to talk. You'll choke yourself. And I'm not taking that tube out, so you'll just have to be silent for a few days. It'll do you good."

Mycroft was glaring at John imperiously. The fact actually seemed to amuse John.

"I know not being able to boss people around must be about as painful as that bullet." He reached into the bedside table and pulled out a legal pad, taking a pen from his pocket. "If you've got something truly urgent to say, you can write it here."

Mycroft nearly jerked the pen out of John's hand, but his movements were clumsy and slow. Sherlock, still paralyzed where John had struck him, watched his brother scrawl a message in drunken letters that looked nothing like his usual neat writing.

John turned the paper toward himself and read aloud, "My idea. Don't blame Sherlock."

He gave a harsh laugh, eyes on the paper rather than either Holmes. "I remember thinking back when it all happened, that if there was a chance I was wrong, that this was some sick bastard's idea of a joke, that it would be your idea of a joke, Mycroft."

Mycroft tugged the paper back toward himself, eyes heavy already. Sherlock stepped closer to read it.

_Necessary. You were in danger._

John didn't read this part out. He pressed his lips into a sort of hard smile. "Mycroft Holmes' twisted sense of protectiveness at work, then? Only this time it looks like you paid the price."

"I-" Sherlock clenched his jaw, uncertain how to begin to catalog his reaction to the scene. All he knew was that there was a sick sense of panic he hadn't felt since the day in the Woman's house when there had been a gun to John's head. "I'm sorry, John. Truly. I understand this –"

"You don't understand –"

"I had to do it –"

"I started seeing my bloody therapist again because of you!"

"There was so much at stake. We couldn't risk –"

"We? _We? _Oh, the almighty, omniscient Holmes brothers decided on a plan and naturally couldn't tell anyone else about it. How could we mere mortals bear such exalted knowledge? Is that it? You just decided that I had to be left out of it?"

Mycroft all but shoved the paper in John's face. He took it with ill grace, though his right hand almost unconsciously pressed against Mycroft's shoulder to keep him reclining against the pillows.

"My fault, John. I'm sorry," John read aloud. He let the notepad fall the bed, and stared at Sherlock.

"Please," Sherlock said quietly, desperately. "Just give me a chance to explain."

John scrubbed a hand down his face, adding another year or two to the lines there. He deflated suddenly, eyes suspiciously bright. "Alright then," he said. "But it had better be good."

Mycroft scribbled another message, but the pen slid from his grasp before he finished it, his eyes sliding closed with the rapidity of the drugged. John and Sherlock both leaned forward to read it.

_It will be, Jo-_

* * *

Additional note: my headcanon was (prior to spoiler-y type things from the set) that John met, married and lost Mary Morstan during that three year gap. The ring comment was a reference to that. I actually started a story about John and Mary called A Vanishing Flame if anyone cares to read it. But wanted to clear that up...

One chapter to go, everyone!


	16. Long-term Investing

_"Police still have no new information in the shooting incident that occurred late last night. It has been confirmed that the victim is a government worker, and was at St. Bartholomew's Hospital on official business. Sources suggest that he may –"_

_Mycroft chooses to ignore the newscaster's voice. It is clear that the reporter knows less than he does about the subject – not an unusual occurrence, but rather disheartening for the journalistic world, as he has been unconscious for an untold number of hours. He reluctantly forces open his eyelids to scowl at the early morning anchor. Who left the blasted television on?_

_He turns his head, carefully, to see John Watson seated in the cushioned chair by his side, his head lolling uncomfortably onto his shoulder. Not an intentional sleeping position. The remote had been on the arm of this chair the last time he was awake – but then, the chair had been unoccupied at that point. John had still been pacing while Sherlock talked._

_"He fell asleep 38 minutes ago," Sherlock says from somewhere nearby. Mycroft has to order his eyes to focus and move to find him. "Don't wake him."_

_Mycroft considers reminding his brother that he is currently incapable of speech, but the coordination required to write is still a bit beyond him, and he's doing his best to ignore the sensation of the breathing tube. Sherlock has folded himself into the straight-backed chair beside John's, knees pulled up to his chest and arms tucked behind them, apparently on his mobile. His face is vaguely anxious, his hair and clothes disheveled, and several magnificent bruises are forming on his face. Add in the rumpled clothing that's the wrong size, and it's an image Mycroft well remembers. Sherlock could be a teenager again._

_Anesthesia turns him positively saccharine. He makes a mental note of this fact._

_His hands seem to be under his command reasonably well now. Mycroft gropes for the legal pad, relieved the pen is hooked onto it by the lid clasp. _Mobile.

_Sherlock glances at the paper and shifts slightly so Mycroft can see the phone he is toying with. Mycroft gags on the breathing tube as he lurches to rescue _his _phone from his brother's hand. His throat muscles spasm against the machine, even as he attempts to control them. Sherlock throws himself out of the chair and is standing beside him in a blink, hands pressing his shoulder back against the pillows and adjusting the breathing apparatus till Mycroft no longer feels death is imminent. He hears the rapid beeping of the heart monitor begin level out. The newscaster's voice insinuates itself back into his consciousness._

_"…and the Independent Commission for Aid Impact reports that several African nations…"_

_John has slept through the ordeal. There's a part of Mycroft's brain, a part detached from the portion ordering his lungs to accept the machine breathing for him, that is interested in this fact._

_"I haven't sent a missile strike to Korea, if that's what you were afraid of," Sherlock says, stepping back from the bed._

_Despite the water in his eyes, Mycroft manages to scrawl a legible response. _Least of my worries.

_Sherlock's mouth smiles, but his eyes and the rest of his face stay discomfited. He studies the machines grouped around the bed before curling back into the chair, Mycroft's mobile still in his hand._

_"Anthea has been informed, and she's currently monitoring all of your communications," he says. "Why do you have your phone locked when it's forwarded to hers? I can't even access your email app or saved messages."_

_Mycroft considers what to write in response, but Sherlock leans his head against the chair back so he can see Mycroft without having to actually turn his body, viewing him in his peripheral vision, and answers his own question. His voice is reflective, as if he's digesting new information._

_"I imagine there are moments when even you need a respite from the noise."_

_Mycroft blinks, but doesn't respond. Sherlock wouldn't expect him to, anyway._

_ Sherlock pulls the remote control from underneath himself and clicks the television off before bending his head over the mobile again. Mycroft lets his eyes wander around the room. The light in the window is deceptive, muddled by the lights on the side of the building, but it would seem that dawn is nearly upon them. He scrawls a single word on the paper and raises it to get Sherlock's attention._

Moran?

_Sherlock reads it without seeming to and frowns. He digs in his pocket for his own phone and checks it. "Still no news. From your people or mine."_

_To be expected. Mycroft tries to sigh, but finds the breathing machine doesn't allow for such things. He's just beginning to drift to sleep again when Sherlock speaks._

_"You gave yourself away, you know."_

_Mycroft blinks at him. His brother turns toward him, flashing a quicksilver grin that reaches his eyes._

_"The charger."_

_Mycroft picks up the pen, but lets it dangle loosely in his fingers, encouraging his brother to explain. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow in acknowledgement._

_"You were very careful to make it known that my being at the house was nothing but an inconvenience to you. In fact, when I was awake, you spent a grand total of approximately 7 minutes in my room. You gave me every indication that you want me far away so I can be managed through surveillance and not be in your way – both while I was at the house and when the time came for me to move on."_

_Mycroft attempts to smirk, but doubts the effect is what he intended._

_"But," Sherlock says, pausing for dramatic effect. "You left your mobile charger in my room. Plugged into the wall next to the bed. Now, one can hardly assume you routinely go into that room to charge your phone, so I'm left to conclude you spent most of the night there. Not the most productive station for the British Government, is it?"_

_Mycroft raises his pen, but finds he doesn't have a good rebuttal. He blames the drugs._

_"There were a few other indicators – the way you reacted when I insisted I plan to return to my life in London – that frown that had the beginnnings of a smile - or the fact you took the satsuma from me without rebuttal, or the fact that you left your most familiar password on all of your systems, even though you had to know I'd at least attempt a hack. You always intended me to come back to London, didn't you? You want me back where it's easiest to look after me."_

_Mycroft scrawls: _There is no such place. _Sherlock chuckles._

_"You're a very good actor, Mycroft, but I know you very well."_

_This shouldn't surprise Mycroft, but it does. The idea that Sherlock knows him as well as he knows Sherlock, has actually bothered to categorize these details rather than deleting them, as he is so fond of doing. There's only one flaw in the logic, and that is assuming that Mycroft had an initial master plan that was more detailed than keeping Sherlock alive. His plans have been fluid for the last three years, taking in information daily and twisting circumstances to suit his goal of a brother who wouldn't need a second funeral for many years to come. But then, Sherlock has a history of attributing more control to Mycroft than he actually possesses._

I suppose there's no getting around your return at this point.

_Sherlock casts a glance at John. "I suppose not," he says quietly. "You'll arrange to keep things quiet until I can speak to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, right?"_

Only if you can manage to keep from being sighted in a hospital being watched by the international media.

_"You exaggerate your importance to the international media, brother," Sherlock says._

_Mycroft raises his left shoulder in a shrug, but freezes as pain ricochets through his chest. He senses rather than sees the fact that Sherlock has frozen as well, waiting for a reaction by which to gauge what his own should be. The heart monitor speeds up again, but he forces himself to relax into the pain, smoothing out the pace as quickly as possible. Sherlock is upset enough by the situation._

_"I almost had him," Sherlock says quietly, still frozen._

_Mycroft can see the course of the conversation like a road map, and he doesn't care for the directions. He doesn't have the mental energy to deal with a long, handwritten discussion. After a split second's hesitation, he writes: _Shut up, Sherlock.

_There's a moment of amused shock, a twitching of facial muscles as Sherlock fights with whatever reaction the sentence conjured. Then he relaxes in the chair and sets his thumbs to work on both phones. The silence is thick and exhausting. Mycroft is teetering on the very edge of sleep when the buzzing of a phone and Sherlock's smothered exclamation brings him sharply back to the hospital room._

_"They've seen him!" Sherlock says, actually bounding out of the chair._

_John jerks awake. Mycroft sees the flickers of absolute confusion, cautious remembrance, and finally, befuddled joy cross his face as he looks around the room._

_"Seen who?"_

_"Moran. One of my homeless network saw him skulking around not far from Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is supposed to be away on holiday for another two days, but we can still use this."_

_Sherlock's thumbs are busy on his mobile. John smiles even as several loud cracks from his joints fill the air. Mycroft, fighting the exhaustion, studies the pair of them. Distant, certainly. They stand well away from each other, but their stances are open. John is facing Sherlock squarely, his posture bulldoggish. Mycroft will never admit to John how comforting it is to know his brother has a combat-seasoned medic at his side. John wouldn't find the concept of being comforting to Mycroft a compliment._

_"We need to see Lestrade. He can get us the team and supplies we need." Sherlock takes two strides toward the door, but stops suddenly, turning to face Mycroft and John. "That is – if you want to come along, John. No pressing need if you have other commitments."_

_John smiles tiredly. "I'm not letting you out of my sight until I've convinced myself you're not a particularly intense hallucination. So whenever and wherever you're going, count me in."_

_Sherlock grins. "Then let's be off!"_

_They both head toward the door, but Sherlock stops for a second time. He comes back and places the phone on Mycroft's bedside table._

_"I'll let Anthea know she can unlock your phone," he says._

_Mycroft raises the pen, but no words come to mind. Sherlock meets his eyes for the briefest of moments and nods almost imperceptibly. Message received. Of course he'll be as careful as he can. He might even check in periodically. And he has John with him. What could be safer?_

_Mycroft can only hope his brother is as adept at reading his expression urging caution. Judging by the grin that blooms across Sherlock's face, there's a good chance he is._

_"Considering how much you despise legwork, you can't be sorry to be left out of this little expedition, Mycroft," Sherlock says. "So cheer up. This frees you to do what you do best."_

_Mycroft waits, eyeing Sherlock with something that feels remarkably like contentment, despite bullet wound in his chest. Naturally, there will be plans to make, people to deploy. He'll need Anthea quickly…_

_His brother is going to make him ask. He takes the pen and scribbles: _And what is it that I do best?

_Sherlock grins. "Worry."_

* * *

Author's note: Thank you so much to all of you for reading! This has been such a great story to tackle, and I appreciate all of the lovely feedback I've received. I hope you've enjoyed the story half as much as I've enjoyed writing it.


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